


Merlin Works in Mysterious Ways

by lordhellebore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Caretaking, Coma, Depression, Disability, Forced Bonding, Forced Marriage, Forced Relationship, HP: EWE, Implied Torture, M/M, Minor Character Death, Miscarriage, Nursing, Prostitution, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 82,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harry is forced to form a Blood Bond with Draco Malfoy under threat of death, he thinks his future will consist of a cold home and sexual frustration. But when a group of left-over Death Eaters decides to stir trouble, their lives change completely – and it takes them both some years to figure out whether it’s for better or for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author LJ Name: lordhellebore  
> Prompter: thania_hinata  
> Prompt Number: #14  
> 

** Part 1: Bound By Blood **

Harry wanted to die.

He’d woken up some time ago, but hadn’t been able to make himself get out of bed. His head was aching murderously, as if a mad dwarf with a hammer had taken up residency inside it, and when he opened his eyes, arrows of pain seemed to shoot through his eyeballs and optic nerves directly into his brain. With a groan, he closed them again, grabbed the second pillow lying beside him, and pressed it on his face. Sweet, sweet darkness.

For a while, he simply stayed like this, wallowing. His eyes were throbbing, his tongue was sticking to his gums, and he knew if he were to get up, he’d feel shaky on his legs and entirely too exhausted to get down the long flight of stairs to the kitchen.

It was his own fault, as Hermione would undoubtedly tell him, for drinking too much when he knew full well that he couldn’t stomach it. Over the past years, there had been many a joke about Harry being unable to hold his liquor ever since two glasses of Firewhiskey had made him sing an offensive song about goblins and try to snuggle up to Head Auror Elmira Ruskin in a decidedly inappropriate fashion at the department’s Christmas party. Ron had dragged him away before he’d made even more of an ass out of himself, and fortunately, Ruskin had been amused rather than angry.

But the Harpies had won the League Cup yesterday – Ginny had caught the Snitch – and at the victory party after the game she had invited him to, one of their Chasers, Valmai Morgan, had kept flirting with him, offering him one glass of champagne after the other. The further the evening had progressed, the deeper Harry had looked into her brilliant blue eyes – and the bottle. He wasn’t certain how he’d got home, and he vaguely remembered Ginny teasing him about a hangover as early as 9pm. He’d not listened – the evening and Valmai had been too lovely to care. 

Still, Hermione would say, a beautiful woman wasn’t a reason to –

Hermione! 

Harry pushed away the pillow and sat up abruptly, causing his head to spin and his stomach to lurch dangerously. He forced himself to take a few deep, slow breaths before he blindly reached for his alarm clock on the bedside table. 

Hermione and Ron had wanted to stop by today for a late lunch after returning from a holiday in Egypt just last night, and he’d forgotten to tell Kreacher, meaning that Kreacher wouldn’t have thought of waking him on time but let him sleep in, as he always did on a Sunday.

Harry could only hope it wasn’t anywhere near 2pm already – he would hate to have to face them like this. He’d never hear the end of it. Bracing himself, he opened his eyes, tried to ignore the pain, and looked at the alarm clock. 8:23am. Great. With a sigh, Harry let himself fall back on the pillow. He must have slept for less than five hours, and knowing himself, he wouldn’t manage to go back to sleep any time soon. He might as well get up.

Even after he’d made the decision, it took him about another ten minutes to motivate himself to move, and when he finally shuffled into the kitchen, the smell of bacon and eggs almost sent him staggering back out.

“Ah, Master Harry.” Kreacher, who was standing at the old-fashioned cooker, paid no attention to the fact that Harry was clinging to the doorframe, trying to get his stomach under control. “Kreacher thought Master Harry would need a proper breakfast to help him. When Miss Ginny brought Master Harry home a few hours ago, she woke Kreacher and told him about the champagne, and Kreacher knew what to do immediately.”

He waved his hand, the door of one of the cupboards opened, and a plate floated to his side. The amount of eggs, bacon, and beans he heaped on it filled Harry with trepidation.

“Kreacher would have kept it warm, but it’s best when it’s fresh out of the pan.” The plate settled down in Harry’s favourite place at the table, where a large glass of water was already waiting.

“Ugh,” Harry managed to say. Kreacher nodded.

“Yes, Kreacher knows Master Harry’s not feeling well. And Master Harry knows this is how it goes after too much to drink. Kreacher promised Miss Ginny to make sure that Master Harry eats a large breakfast. She agreed that it’s what Master Harry needs, and even if Kreacher hadn’t done this before, he would think that she must know best.”

Resigned, Harry sat down and took the fork. The worst thing about it was that Ginny was right – after two years of living together as a couple at Grimmauld Place and another four as good friends, she was who knew him best, apart from Ron and Hermione. He was glad about it, glad that they’d split amicably and were still in each other’s lives, but right now, he resented her conspiring with his house-elf against him. If Kreacher hadn’t known, Harry could simply have skipped breakfast and contented himself with the headache potion he’d taken before coming downstairs. Not that it would have been enough to make him feel better. He still wasn’t sure why, in a world of magic that even had invented something to re-grow your bones, nobody seemed to be able to come up with a decent hangover cure.

Harry sighed, listlessly spooned some beans onto the fork, and stuck it in his mouth.

Ten minutes later, he was halfway through the second helping, had asked Kreacher to fry some tomatoes, and was thinking of buying Ginny flowers to thank her for taking care of him.

He had just started on the tomatoes when the doorbell rung. Although he felt halfway human again, he didn’t particularly care for visitors right now, and his mood didn’t rise when he opened the door and found himself faced with Draco Malfoy.

They hadn’t met since the battle of Hogwarts nine years ago – none of the children of Death Eaters had attended school to take their N.E.W.T.s. Harry had glimpsed him a few times at the Ministry or at Diagon Alley, but it had always been from afar, and they’d never talked or even acknowledged each other. There was no reason why Malfoy should turn up at Harry’s door or why they would ever have anything to do with each other again.

“What do you want?” Harry didn’t care much about being polite, and from the way Malfoy was glaring at him, the sentiment was mutual.

For a few moments, Malfoy said nothing, then he took a deep breath. “I’ve come to accept your proposal.”

“What are you talking about? Which . . . proposal?” They hadn’t spoken once since the Malfoys had awkwardly thanked him for speaking on their behalf at their trial after the war – not that it had helped them much. 

Malfoy drew himself up to his full height. There was a strange pink tinge to his pale cheeks. “Your proposal of marriage, of course.”

Harry stared at him, dumbfounded. Was this some kind of joke? A prank played on him by . . . but who of his friends would employ Malfoy for such a thing? And why would Malfoy play along? 

Or had Malfoy simply gone mental? 

Had _Harry_ gone mental?

“I must be hallucinating,” he finally got out. 

“You’re not, Potter. I’ve come to accept your proposal of marriage. I had hoped I wouldn’t have to do it, but the circumstances leave me no choice.” When Harry didn’t reply, Malfoy rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Judging by the fact that you’re wearing the same dazed expression your friend Longbottom used to in Potions class, you haven’t got the faintest idea what I’m talking about, right?”

“Right,” Harry echoed. He _must_ be hallucinating. Surely, he hadn’t been drunk enough last night to propose to anybody, let alone Malfoy. Had he? Not to mention that Malfoy hadn’t been at the party. As far as Harry could remember, at least – which wasn’t all _that_ far.

“I’ll explain it to you, but only after you let me in,” Malfoy demanded. “I don’t appreciate having to wait on your doorstep as if I were asking for alms. _You_ were the one proposing _to me_ , after all.”

Harry had the overwhelming desire to simply slam the door in Malfoy’s face and return to the kitchen. Kreacher could make him tea and he could watch some TV and just laze around for some hours until Ron and Hermione would arrive. He’d tell them about this outlandish episode and they’d all have a good laugh at the idea of Harry proposing to Malfoy. He definitely hadn’t been that drunk. Definitely.

But for whatever reason, he felt that he couldn’t do it. For all of Malfoy’s snappy arrogance, there was something off about him, about the way his posture was just a bit too rigid, his fists clenched too tightly by his sides. After three years of Auror training and five years in the actual job, Harry, like many of his colleagues, had developed a sixth sense for such things, and now he had the distinct impression that in fact, Malfoy _was_ feeling that he was ‘asking for alms’, as he’d put it. 

“Fine,” he said, stepping away from the door. “Come on in. Let’s talk.”

In the kitchen, Malfoy sat down stiffly on the chair Harry offered him, and Harry, who’d sat down as well, was just about to ask him what the hell this was all about when he noticed something else. Malfoy was shaking. Not much, but it was there, although he seemed to try to hide it by tightly folding his hands in front of him on the table. He was staring straight ahead at Harry with an expressionless face, but hadn’t he looked at the leftover eggs and beans on the cooker a little too long when they’d come in? 

It was only now when Harry paid closer attention that he realised that Malfoy was too thin, almost haggard. His face had become even more pinched, eyes lying deep in their sockets, and his fingers looked too long and spidery. Harry couldn’t remember him ever looking quite like this, not even at the end of the war. 

It wasn’t a conscious decision when he asked, “I was just having breakfast. Do you want some?”

“I am _not_ . . .” Malfoy began, and Harry already expected that he’d refuse. But then Malfoy fell silent, pressing his lips together in a thin line. Harry could see he was fighting with himself, not wanting to admit anything that could be regarded as weakness in front of Harry. Considering he’d been talking about marriage only a minute ago, it seemed all the more bizarre, but by now Harry felt sobered up almost completely and was certain that something must be seriously wrong and that he couldn’t make any assumptions.

“Yes,” Malfoy said now. “Breakfast doesn’t sound that bad.”

At first, he ate slowly, obviously trying to maintain his dignity, but after only a few forkfuls, he dug in as if he hadn’t eaten properly in a week. Harry watched him with growing unease and ordered Kreacher to fry a few sausages and more eggs, and when Malfoy was done, Harry waved Kreacher to fill up the plate again. Malfoy seemed about to object, but then stayed silent and went on shovelling food into his mouth. 

In the end, Malfoy put down the fork, but he didn’t look up, staring at his empty plate instead. He must be terribly embarrassed, Harry thought, and while part of him was gloating, he didn’t really like that part very much right now.

“Kreacher’s a wonderful cook,” he said. “I just had two helpings myself before you came. You should see Ron – he slips into a food coma most times he’s here.” 

“You’re being pathetically obvious,” Malfoy said, but now he did look at Harry.

Kreacher had, without being ordered, made a pot of tea and left the kitchen to let them talk, and Harry now poured them both a cup.

“So,” he said when he was done. “What’s going on? What’s with me proposing to you? I never did that, and you know it. I wasn’t that drunk last night. This has got to be a joke.”

Malfoy nodded. “I should have known that you would be woefully uneducated concerning these matters, even though it’s about your own family history. Saviour of the Wizarding world and all, but no clue about anything, let alone who you are.”

“Look, Malfoy! I don’t know what you’re going on about and frankly, I don’t care much.” Which was a lie. It was all bogus, of course, and he was still seriously wondering if Malfoy was quite right in the head. But this was . . . interesting. “What I do know is that I’m not going to let you insult me in my own house, so either you spit it out or you can leave again.”

Malfoy’s grip around his cup tightened visibly, but he nodded. “All right. You do know that your father came from a long pure-blood line, don’t you?” 

“Yes, I know. But what does that have to do with you and me?”

“Everything. Only 150 years ago, the Potters were one of the most respected pure-blood families, right up there with the Malfoys and Blacks.”

“How the times have changed,” Harry couldn’t keep himself from saying.

Malfoy grimaced, but didn’t respond to the bait. “They weren’t just one of the richest and most respected families,” he went on, “they also were deeply entrenched in Dark Magic.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Is it? Why? Just because your parents were fighting the Dark Lord, do you think their forefathers had to be like them? Think about your godfather. He came from one of _the_ darkest Wizarding families in this country’s history, and he turned from them when he was still a kid.”

“I don’t believe you,” Harry insisted. “Somebody would have told me. Sirius or the Weasleys, or maybe Dumbledore.”

“Why would they? Black and your Weasel friends probably wanted to spare your feelings, and as for Dumbledore, wasn’t it more convenient for him that you didn’t know?”

Damn Malfoy, but he did have a point.

“Still, even if it were true, which I don’t believe, what does it have to do with anything?”

Malfoy sighed. “There are traditions. Traditions that aren’t upheld by anybody but pure-blood families anymore, and specifically those who are regarded as ‘dark’. One of them is the Blood Proposal.”

“Blood Proposal.” Slowly but surely, Harry began to doubt that he had, in fact, sobered up. Maybe he was still asleep and all of this was nothing more than a particularly strange dream brought on by too much alcohol.

“You remember, I suppose, casting a certain spell on me in our sixth school year,” Malfoy said. “One that slashed my chest open and nearly had me bleed to death.”

“You’re not telling me . . .”

“Yes, Potter. I know it wasn’t your intention, but after the old ways, that was you proposing to me. A wizard proposes to a witch by casting a dark spell that will spill her blood. Usually it’s a lot less blood, as I may add.” Malfoy absently rubbed his chest. “There are also some traditional words going with it, but they’re not essential, the spell is. By spilling her blood, the wizard vows to protect her and her family in exchange for a blood heir to continue their lines. If she wants to accept, she has to cast the same spell on him. That seals the engagement.”

Clearly, Malfoy must have lost his mind. But at least it answered the question about last night.

“There’s that Longbottom-look again,” Malfoy said.

“Excuse me, but it’s just a tad hard to believe that there’s a way to get accidentally engaged by _attacking_ someone. And anyway, why – if you’re actually serious, which I find hard to believe – why would you want to accept it? Why marry me?”

“I will tell you once you stop looking at me as if I were some creature from that ridiculous _Quibbler_ magazine. For now, why don’t you call for your house-elf if you don’t believe me? Ask him about Blood Proposals. He is old enough to have seen generations of Blacks go through the ritual.”

Harry felt a small amount of dread sneaking into him, but told himself not to be stupid. Even if these Blood Proposals were how it had worked in the past – always provided Malfoy didn’t actually belong in St Mungo’s – his parents hadn’t been dark wizards, and he wasn’t one, either. This particular tradition didn’t affect him, and on the whole, to think that accidentally spilling somebody’s blood with a hex immediately meant a marriage proposal was absurd.

“Fine, I’ll ask him.” Harry called Kreacher, and the old house-elf appeared with a ‘pop’ next to Harry’s chair.

“Kreacher,” Harry said, “can you tell me anything about Blood Proposals?”

Kreacher’s watery eyes went wide, but he nodded, answering immediately. “Kreacher knows all about Blood Proposals,” he said. “He has seen many of them, since he was a small elf helping out in the kitchen. Kreacher wishes he could have seen Master Regulus perform the ritual, but the last one he witnessed in this house was when Master Orion proposed to Mistress Walburga.” He smiled, quite obviously remembering the day fondly. Harry shuddered, thinking of the screeching portrait of Mrs Black which had been hanging in the entrance hall and had now been banished to the attic.

“Malfoy said it’s a tradition upheld in families that practise Dark Magic. I’m not from one, so even if it exists, this whole thing doesn’t apply to me, right, Kreacher?”

To Harry’s dismay, Kreacher began wringing his hands, looking decidedly uncomfortable. 

“Well?”

“Kreacher knows about Master Harry’s unnatural dislike of Dark Magic, so he’s not happy to tell him that his family has always been practising Dark Magic, over many generations, until very recently. Kreacher has seen many Potters in this house over the years, since they were good friends with the Blacks.” Now Kreacher looked up at Harry, whose heart sank more the longer he listened.

“Kreacher knows that Master Harry saw the family tree tapestry and the name Charlus Potter on it. He was Master Harry’s second cousin, but he died in a fire with his wife and son before Master Harry was born. Kreacher watched as Master Charlus performed the ritual of the Blood Proposal with Mistress Walburga’s aunt, Mistress Dorea.”

Harry’s head was swirling as he tried to make sense of the complicated family relations. He’d never known much about the Potters, only what Sirius had told him: that they came from a long line of pure-blood wizards, and that his grandparents had been old when they’d had Harry’s father, even for Wizarding standards. They’d passed away from a Wizarding disease only months before Harry had been born. It did fit with what Kreacher was saying, though. He vaguely remembered the birth date next to Charlus on the tapestry being something like 1914 or 1915, and if he was indeed Harry’s second cousin, it meant that he’d been an adult for almost thirty years before Harry’s father, his uncle, had even been born. 

“Master Charlus followed the old ways, after his parents,” Kreacher went on, “but his great-uncle, Martinus Potter, Master Harry’s grandfather . . . he had turned from the family. He did marry a pure-blood wife, but Kreacher heard that there was no Blood Proposal, and they never came to visit or even spoke to the rest of the family anymore. Kreacher heard it said that Master Martinus was obliterated from the Potter family tree. All hopes were resting on Master Charlus, and when he died with his family, his parents were devastated. They believed that the Potter family had come to a ruinous end, and . . . Kreacher is sorry to say, but they drowned themselves the very same year. That way, Master Harry’s grandparents and father were the last Potters. And Master Harry, of course.”

The headache was returning, and Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a few moments. This was why he hated the whole focus on blood-lines – it was too damn confusing, and it all ended in tragedy far too often.

“So,” he said, taking a deep breath, “is it at all possible to . . . get engaged by accident? Say, a wizard attacks someone with a slashing hex, a dark one, but he didn’t actually mean to propose.”

“Oh, Kreacher has seen something like it,” came the reply, and Harry slumped in his chair, burying his face in his hands. “It’s how old Master Sirius, Master Regulus’s great-grandfather, got to be married to Hesper Gamp. They were actually fighting, trying to kill each other. Their families had been bitter enemies for generations. Mistress Hesper provoked Master Sirius so much that . . .” Kreacher hesitated, but then went on, “Master Sirius took leave of his senses and used a dark slashing hex. He met his target, but once Mistress Hesper realised what had happened, she disarmed and bound him and delivered him to his family. The next few weeks, she visited every day and took great pleasure in taunting him with the fact that he had bound himself to her for life if she so chose, and that she would see him miserable much rather than simply see him dead. Master Sirius was bereft, but in the end, he had to marry her.”

“All right, thank you, Kreacher,” Harry said. “You can go now.”

There was another ‘pop’, and when Harry opened his eyes, there was only Malfoy, watching him attentively.

“Look, Malfoy . . .” Harry wasn’t quite sure what to say, but he wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Right now, he wasn’t particularly interested anymore in finding out what, precisely, Malfoy was planning or why. He’d learnt too much in too short a time, and nothing of it was pleasant. It wasn’t that he was horribly shocked or sad about his family’s past, and he still wasn’t seriously considering that anything Malfoy could have told him in regard to the two of them was valid – although a nagging voice of doubt had settled somewhere in the back of his mind. Mostly, he was confused and tired, and he wanted some time to think things through without having to deal with Malfoy, of all people. “I don’t think I —”

“I know you’re rattled,” Malfoy interrupted him. “But I can’t wait anymore. I have waited as long as I could – I didn’t _want_ to come. But I didn’t have a choice. We’ve got to talk this through; I’ll explain what happened, and why. You can’t send me away now.”

“I can.” Harry got up and started towards Malfoy. “I could have when you were standing on my doorstep. I’ve got no obligation. I didn’t propose to you – I’m not a dark wizard, so whatever it might have meant even if it was accidental, it doesn’t mean anything when it comes to me.” He’d arrived next to Malfoy, who’d got up as well, glaring at Harry from eyes shining with . . . anger? Despair? Harry wasn’t certain. “I can see you’re not doing well, and I’m actually rather sorry for you. But it’s not my problem.”

It wasn’t, and it shouldn’t be. He’d done more than enough for Malfoy’s family. Still, Harry found that he couldn’t simply throw Malfoy out like this. He no longer thought it an option that the man had somehow snapped. As he’d suspected earlier, something was indeed very wrong, and Malfoy must be desperate to have come to him; Harry was certain that he was the absolute last option. Malfoy himself had said that he hadn’t wanted to do it. And _marriage_ – just what kind of problems did he have that he’d consider something this ludicrous rather than face them?

“If you need help, just . . . come back tomorrow evening, tell me what your problem is, and I’ll see what I can do, all right?” And hopefully, with that, the whole affair would be brought to an end. 

They kept staring at each other for a few more moments, then Malfoy slumped ever so slightly, and when he ran a hand though his hair, Harry could see that it was trembling again.

“I will come back tomorrow,” Malfoy said. “But there is no other solution. It’s clear you wouldn’t believe me if I explained any more, so ask your elf, or if you don’t believe him either, ask your know-it-all friend, Granger. I’m sure she can tell you all about why you _do_ have an obligation and what happens if you don’t honour it.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?”

Malfoy didn’t answer, but turned away and left the kitchen. Some moments later, Harry could hear the front door falling shut behind him.

He took the teapot and his cup and went to the living room, where he slumped down on the green velvet couch in front of the telly with a groan after he’d put them on the coffee table. Why did he have to get up? But if he’d been unavailable and Kreacher had sent Malfoy away, he’d only have come back later. At least now, Harry thought as he reached for the remote, he could ask Hermione right away if she knew anything about Blood Proposals.

Half an hour later, while _The Simpsons_ was running, Harry had fallen asleep again.

.-.-.-.-.

Harry was sitting in the kitchen with Ron and Hermione, drinking butterbeer and eating delicious sandwiches and cheese canapés Kreacher had prepared while he had been sleeping. The two had told Harry about Egypt, and he’d let them talk, letting their stories about exotic creatures and old tombs distract him for a while. In the end, though, he’d brought up his bizarre morning visit.

Both Ron and Hermione had put their sandwiches down and stared at him in confusion when Harry had mentioned the words ‘proposal’ and ‘marriage’, but when he came to the part about his family having been entrenched in Dark Magic and mentioned the ‘Blood Proposal’, Ron started choking and spitting pieces of toast and tuna everywhere.

“You’re kidding!” he finally gasped, after Hermione had slapped him hard on the back several times. “Blood Proposals are serious stuff. They’re Unbreakable Blood Contracts – it doesn’t get any more serious than that. Mum told me about Uncle Ignatius Prewett proposing that way to Lucretia Black. She was Sirius’s aunt, I think.”

“You’ve got an uncle who’s practising Dark Magic?” Harry asked.

“Uh, we don’t like to talk about him so much anymore. Before he married, he was okay; Mum and Dad even named Percy after him. But once he married her, he got all weird. Well, he moved away to the Orkney Islands after she died over fifteen years ago. Said he’d live in a hut alone on a small island hiding from his Muggle neighbours rather than watch his family and Wizarding Britain fall further into decay. Nobody’s seen him since, and if you ask me, it’s good riddance.”

“Well,” Harry said, “that uncle used Dark Magic on purpose when he proposed, no? I didn’t. I’m not a dark wizard, even if my ancestors and my cousin were. It’s got nothing to do with me. I mean, I can’t just somehow have performed some Dark Ritual without even knowing. Malfoy was making that up.” 

Hermione and Ron shared a worried glance that Harry didn’t like one bit.

“Tell me!” he demanded.

“It’s not that easy,” Ron finally muttered after some awkward seconds of silence.

“Ron is right,” Hermione cut in. “If a family has been practising the Dark Arts for a long time, it’s hard to renounce them completely. Even if you never perform any dark spells again, and even if generations pass and nobody touches Dark Magic . . .” She shook her head. “As much as I hate to say it – you know I hate this circus around blood-lines – but it stays in a family’s blood. You could call it a special talent for Dark Magic. It’s like magical evolution, if you want.”

Ron nodded. “Mum said the Prewetts haven’t been dark in over six hundred years, but before that . . . apparently, they were the equivalent of what’s been the Blacks in recent times. And there have always been black sheep since then, like Uncle Ignatius. The way she explained it, even distant relations using Dark Magic strengthens the tendency in your children’s blood. If my parents had wanted it, they could have easily got blood-bonded too, what with the Prewetts on Mum’s side and the Blacks on Dad’s. And his grandmother was a Yaxley.”

“But I still don’t—”

“It’s _in your blood_ , Harry,” Hermione said. “It’s, well, you could say it’s an inherited genetic trait, like green eyes. The way I understand Blood Proposals . . .” She took a long swig of her butterbeer. “I’ll have to look at it again, it’s in _Blood Magic: The Pulse of Wizardry_ , but I think I remember it correctly. I was researching Blood Magic for my own book – by the way, did I tell you I found some fascinating scrolls about the origins of some curses in a bookshop in Cairo? I have to include them – there’s something about the Imperius Curse I’d never have found out otherwise.”

“That’s great, but I’ve got other problems right now. Bigger problems. Can we go back to the Blood Proposals?” If Hermione started on her book, it could take forever, and Harry didn’t fancy another lecture about _The History of the Dark Arts: A Comprehensive Guide to the Origins and Usage of Dark Magic from Roman Times to the Present_.

“Sure,” Hermione said, blushing slightly. “Sorry. So, if somebody like you, who is only two generations away from those who last practised Dark Magic habitually, performs a Dark Ritual, the ritual will work. It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s on purpose. The magic will . . . recognise you, I suppose that’s the best way to put it. It recognises you as a member of your blood-line, and if there’s a propensity to the Dark Arts, then it will automatically work, no matter your intent.”

“So, why aren’t people getting accidentally engaged like that all the time? It makes no sense!” Harry insisted. “Kreacher told me he’d seen it once, but with all the fighting and wars going on, shouldn’t it happen much more often?”

“Well, there’s certain criteria that need to be met,” Hermione explained. “But if they are . . .” She looked at Harry unhappily. “As far as I know, it has happened accidentally a few times in the past, and also under the influence of the Imperius Curse. But usually, because of Blood Proposals, nobody in their right minds who can still be blood-bonded would ever use a dark slashing hex in battle.”

Harry shook his head incredulously. “What about Snape, then?” he wanted to know. “He created _Sectumsempra_ ‘for enemies’. Why? I mean, he must have known, he was intrigued by the Dark Arts. So much so that he made up his own dark spells. Wouldn’t he have known that he’d just have offered marriage to everyone he used it on?”

Hermione shrugged helplessly. “I’m not entirely sure,” she said, “but I suppose his Wizarding family never was all that dark. In such cases, intent does matter, and if the hex isn’t answered with the same hex, there’s no Blood Contract. Plus, let’s face it: that curse was made to kill with. If someone is dead, it doesn’t really matter anyway.”

“They should teach us that stuff at Hogwarts. I mean, it’s important!” They were taught total flim-flam like Divination, but not this? It was absurd. Maybe there was a point in learning more about the Dark Arts than only how to defend yourself against them. “So what are the criteria?”

“Firstly, a Blood Proposal has to be executed by Dark Magic. Defensive spells won’t do, and there are more than enough attack spells which could cause bleeding without them being dark. The _Sectumsempra_ you used is an extremely dark curse, which probably helped the whole thing along, too. Next, Blood Proposals only work between witches and wizards from dark families these days, or at least families that used to be dark. You’ve got to be a pretty powerful wizard with some serious determination to make it work even without a tingle of Dark Magic running through your veins.”

Harry wondered how many families like that actually existed. Among the pure-bloods, certainly no more than a handful, what with all the intermarrying.

“Most people other than pure-blood families stuck in mediaeval times – like the Blacks or Malfoys – don’t care anyway,” Hermione went on. “Blood Bonds were mainly invented to ensure blood purity. The wizard who proposes vows to protect the witch and her family, and if she accepts, she vows to bear him an heir if he demands it. As Ron said, a Blood Proposal is an Unbreakable Blood Contract. Once the engagement is sealed, sex with anybody else will cause something . . . well, it’s like a horrible hangover, only worse and it lasts longer. Incredibly painful. Most won’t subject themselves to it. It’s the perfect way to ensure marital fidelity and a pure blood-line. That’s why Blood Proposals only work between virgins.” 

“Hah!” Harry thrust his index finger in her direction and jumped up from his chair in excitement. “Blood purity! Heirs! Damn, I knew I’d forgotten something. I’m such an idiot!”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” How couldn’t they have thought of it? And why hadn’t he sooner? “All this talk you just did, about how a wizard proposes to a witch like this – Malfoy said the same thing. A wizard and a witch! And it’s all for continuing the blood-line. Well, we’re _two men_ , we can’t do that! We can’t have kids together!” He was grinning widely, feeling as if he’d jumped out of the way of a terrible hex just in time. “Malfoy was trying to diddle me! I can’t believe I didn’t notice. And how come you fell for it, with all that you know about this stuff?”

There they went again, exchanging looks Harry didn’t like at all.

“What now?”

“Bad news, mate,” Ron said dejectedly. 

“You’re not serious.”

“I fear yes, Harry,” Hermione said. “Two wizards can have children together, as can two witches. There are spells to make it possible, even though it’s complicated. Gay couples aren’t particularly well-liked in pure-blood circles, but it’s not unheard of. And it’s tolerated by most as long as there are children.”

“Anything so the blood-line continues,” Harry said flatly, sinking back down on his chair. More and more, all of this seemed to be a huge effort of the universe to gang up on him.

“Yes. Although there are families who won’t have it, children or no. When I researched the Black family tree for my book, Kreacher told me something interesting.”

“Let me guess: one of those erased was actually gay?” It wasn’t particularly surprising, Harry thought, that the Blacks of all families would have a problem with this.

“Marius, Sirius’s great-uncle – the brother of Dorea who married your cousin. They later said he was a Squib, but that is nonsense. He was homeschooled, like all of his siblings, so he never went to Hogwarts, but there are enough people who remember him being a fine young wizard – the Blacks didn’t manage to Obliviate everyone outside the family. He formed a Blood Bond with Clarence Rookwood when he was nineteen, and after his family threw him out, they decided to leave. They went abroad and were never heard of again, but they stayed just long enough to let everyone see that Clarence was pregnant.”

Harry said nothing for a while. The idea was all too bizarre. Before his inner eye, the picture of a pregnant Malfoy began to form, and he shuddered. It was simply too ridiculous. Not to mention creepy. And based on the premise of him and Malfoy having sex. 

No. He wouldn’t go there. He wasn’t even attracted to _men_ , never mind Malfoy! He’d always only found women attractive, hadn’t even experimented with a man and – wait!

“I’m not a virgin! And I bet neither is Malfoy. I was back then, but now . . . If this is all for the blood line – if the Proposal exists but hasn’t been accepted, couldn’t they go around and have sex? Have kids with somebody else? How can it still be binding then?”

Hermione shook her head. “Once a Blood Proposal has been made but is not yet sealed or rejected, well . . . you can have sex with somebody else. But it won’t result in children, ever. Your magic prevents it. It’s frowned upon because it essentially counts as marital infidelity, and there have been proposals that were rejected because of it. But it’s doesn’t automatically nullify the contract.”

“So what, it makes you temporarily infertile too?” This was insane! “There’s got to be a way to take it back.” Harry couldn’t believe that although nothing about this damned thing was going according to how it was supposed to traditionally be, he still couldn’t find a loophole to get out of it.

“There isn’t.” Hermione was looking even unhappier now. “Once a Blood Proposal has been made, if all criteria are met, the final decision lies entirely with the party it was made to. It’s the single most binding magical contract ever formed. Harry . . .” She was shaking her head, biting her lower lip uncomfortably. “If Draco really wants it, you’ll have to marry him, and with Blood Bonding, divorce isn’t an option.”

“That’s bollocks!” Harry snapped, jumping up yet again. “I’m not marrying that twat! You can’t seriously tell me that I’m screwed because my ancestors were idiots?!”

Hermione didn’t answer, and neither did Ron.

“Well, I won’t do it. It’s as simple as that. I’m not marrying Malfoy, and that’s the end of it.”

“Then you’ll die.” Ron’s voice was flat and dead serious, and it completely took the wind out of Harry’s sails. He sat down hard, almost missing his chair so that he sent it swaying and had to hold on to the edge of the table for support. 

“It’s true,” Hermione said, and there was the same sense of dread in her voice. “If you don’t honour a Blood Contract, you’ll die. You can’t prevent Draco from accepting, and if the Blood Bond isn’t finalised in the amount of time he names when accepting, your own magic will kill you. You’ve got no choice.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

Harry let Malfoy enter without a word. 

It was 8pm on Monday evening and he’d come home from the Ministry an hour ago, where he hadn’t worked but tried to find out everything he could find about Blood Proposals and his own wretched family.

The results had been devastating. It was precisely as Ron and Hermione – and Malfoy – had said: Harry had entered into a binding magical contract with Malfoy, and if he broke it, the fact that it was a Blood Contract would turn his magic against him and make him die a gruesome death. He’d read a report in the Ministry archive about a wizard dying four hundred years ago due to stepping back from a sealed Blood Engagement, and the description had almost sent him throwing up his lunch. 

When he’d consulted with somebody from the Legal Advice Office and asked how it could be possible that accidents like this had such dire consequences, the only answer he’d been met with had been that ignorance was no excuse in law. He’d wanted to hex the old hag; preferably in a way that would cause her to spend some time at St Mungo’s and ponder the joys of being able to use the loo.

Shortly after he’d arrived home, Hermione and Ron had turned up, revealing that they hadn’t had any luck trying to find a way out either. Harry was trapped. His only hope was to talk Malfoy out of this ludicrous plan.

Now Harry led him to the kitchen again, where Ron and Hermione were waiting already. Malfoy stopped dead when he saw them.

“What are they doing here?”

“They’re my best friends,” Harry said. “We’ve got no secrets, and since you’re trying to coerce me into marrying you, I feel like I’ve got the right to have some support. We can either talk with them present or you can leave.”

Malfoy seemed to consider for some moments, but in the end, he sat down at the opposite side of the table, ignoring the two.

“So,” he asked, “is it clear to you by now that you’ve got no choice but to stand by your offer?”

“I did my research, yes.” Harry sat down next to Ron and Hermione. “Seems that if you insist, I’ll have to be married to you. Blood-bonded, even. But I’ve got no clue why you’d want that. Obviously, you can’t stand me, and I assure you the feeling is mutual.”

“Oh, the surprise.” Malfoy’s lips curled into a sneer. “Unfortunately, as I told you before, I have no choice, either. Oh, don’t think it’s not fun for me to see you writhe like a worm on the hook, but I would much rather have avoided the whole business.”

“Right,” Ron cut in. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’ve got the cerebral capacity of a flobberworm, Weasel. I wonder what your wife sees in you – an amusing pet, maybe?”

Hermione put her hand on Ron’s arm as he tried to draw his wand. “Don’t.”

“Shut it, Malfoy!” Harry snapped. “This isn’t helping.”

Like the day before, Malfoy seemed to fight with himself, but then he nodded. “You’re right.” He ran his hand through his hair, which was hanging limply down to his jaw. Harry couldn’t help but notice that again, he seemed to be shaking. Hadn’t he eaten since yesterday morning? And why did Harry even care?

“It’s not as if you wouldn’t tell them anyway,” Malfoy said. He folded his hands in front of him on the table, looking down on them in obvious resignation. “The truth is: I don’t know what to do anymore. I always told myself it wouldn’t come to this, but I knew that maybe at some point . . . It’s why I never rejected the proposal when I realised what had happened, and I only truly thought about it when the war was over.”

“Is it because of the Reparation Laws?” Hermione asked softly and with entirely too much sympathy for somebody whose husband Malfoy had insulted only moments earlier.

“Of course it is. We made it somehow, I always managed to scrape enough money together, but recently it’s been close to impossible, and now that Mother is too sick to leave her bed . . .”

“Wait,” Harry interrupted. “What are those laws? What do they say?” He knew that the fortunes and estates of all Death Eaters had been seized and redistributed by the Ministry as war reparations to the families, Wizarding and Muggle, who had lost loved ones or their own homes, but he’d never bothered with details and had believed that that was all. Surely, the Malfoys could survive on a normal salary like everyone, even without the family fortune in the background.

When he said so, there was an exasperated sigh from Hermione, and Malfoy looked up at him with an expression of utter disbelief. “You want to be an Auror and don’t even . . . Merlin! How do you survive?”

“Better than you, apparently,” Harry returned, but it was a cheap shot, and he knew it.

“You don’t say. It’s not as if _you_ are restricted by a set of laws which in essence aim at killing your family. No, don’t even start,” Malfoy said as Harry wanted to interrupt him, “it’s true, and Weasley’s wife knows it.” He grimaced in a way that might be interpreted as a wry smile. “She protested against it at the Ministry, of course completely unsuccessfully. If Minister Shacklebolt hadn’t died he might have stopped this, but Hollingberry seems to take great pleasure in tormenting us.”

To Harry’s astonishment, Hermione nodded her confirmation, and Malfoy went on. “You probably know that my father died four years ago in Azkaban, so he is out of the picture. The _Prophet_ made a spectacle out of it. _Dedicated Death Eater finally meets his rightful end_ , and so on and so forth. Our manor and all money were taken by the Ministry right after the war. And yes, Mother and I could have survived without that, like other people. Being rich doesn’t mean you’re incapable of working. If they would _let_ us work, that is.”

Harry was feeling decidedly uncomfortable by now. There were so many things going on which he apparently didn’t know anything about, but could have if he had paid more attention. And the idea that the Ministry was specifically targeting the families of Death Eaters . . . as an Auror, how could he not have noticed?

“Have you ever looked around with your eyes open since the war, Potter?” Malfoy asked. “How many former Death Eaters or their children have you seen working anywhere in our world? No Wizarding employer will take us, and I’m fairly certain it’s not only because we weren’t allowed to take our N.EW.T.s and the Ministry restricted our magic to using the Floo and household spells. I applied for almost a hundred positions during the months after the war, but I had no chance. The same goes for all the others. And we’re forbidden to build up any business of our own.”

“Well, what about Muggle jobs?” Harry wanted to know. “Are those beneath you?”

Malfoy snorted. “I’ve spent the last nine years in and out of Muggle jobs, the ones you don’t need any Muggle education for. I’ve waited tables, stacked boxes, sold everything from McDonald’s hamburgers to sex toys, and – I’m sure this will delight you and Weasley particularly – I spent five months cleaning Muggle toilets. Without magic, of course. But it kept us fed and I could buy Mother’s medicine, so I couldn’t complain.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The _problem_ is that it has been illegal for almost the last three years, ever since Hollingberry became Minister!” Now Malfoy’s pale face was flushed, his eyes burning. “We’re not allowed to work for Muggles anymore, or to live on Muggle dole. It’s illegal for us to ‘profit from them’, as the Ministry puts it. Of course, everyone is doing it anyway, but these last years, I had to quit every single job at some point because those Ministry snoopers were after me. I couldn’t risk being caught by them a third time. It would have meant half a year in Azkaban, and who would have taken care of Mother, then? They had caught me twice already, made me quit and confiscated my pay. Mother almost died without her medicine! If her sister hadn’t given us money . . .” Again, he raked a trembling hand through his hair. “They _are_ trying to kill us. They hope that we’ll just starve somewhere out of sight and no longer bother them.”

Harry didn’t know what to think or to say. How could he have been so entirely clueless? This was more than cruel, and he couldn’t believe that the public would simply accept it.

“Hermione, why didn’t you tell me?” he finally managed to ask. If she had protested against these laws . . .

“You weren’t here when the laws were put in place,” she said softly. “You were so busy in New York, and then there was . . . Lizbeth. It was only two months after I’d handed in the protest, and then I couldn’t . . .” She trailed off, and Ron put his arm around her and kissed her temple.

“I understand,” Harry said. He’d been overjoyed to hear that Hermione was having a baby, and even though he had indeed been extremely busy at the Auror exchange programme with New York, he had come back to England for a weekend when they had shared the news and asked him to be the godfather. After that, he’d Firecalled regularly and promised to be there when the baby would arrive.

But one day, when she had been six months along and they had long picked a name, there had been a distraught Firecall from Ron: Hermione had lost the baby and survived by only a hair’s breath. After that, it had taken her months to get out of St Mungo’s, and over a year to get back to a relatively normal life. Harry had visited her several times at the hospital and offered to come home permanently, but she hadn’t wanted to hear a word about it.

“Why don’t you leave the country?” Harry asked Malfoy. “It seems like the best option. Start fresh somewhere else.”

“You still don’t get it, do you? They _want us to die_ ; they are doing everything they can other than having us all be Kissed by Dementors. We’re not allowed to leave the country, and if we’re caught trying, it means five years of Azkaban without even a trial. Pansy and Theodore tried to leave for his relatives in Germany a year ago; now they’re locked up for another four. I can’t risk that, not with Mother being so sick.”

“This is . . . it’s a travesty!” Harry still couldn’t understand how it could have happened. The former Death Eaters deserved punishment, yes, but not a slow death sentence. “I’ll go to the Minister, hand in a protest myself. This can’t go on, something has to be done!”

“Yes, you try that. I’m sure they will listen.” Malfoy looked less than convinced. “You’re their hero, sure, but don’t flatter yourself. When it’s your approval versus the punishment of us ‘monsters’, even Weasley could figure out the odds.”

Harry had to admit that Malfoy had a point. He was popular with the general Wizarding public and mostly well-liked at the Ministry, but it didn’t mean he had any true political influence. Minister Shacklebolt had been an experienced, capable man who was in no need of advice from a young man barely out of his teens, and now that there was a new Minister Harry didn’t even know, there was no good reason why his opinion should count. Still, he’d try it. He had to.

“But how can they just accept this? Why didn’t people protest? This is just as bad as what Voldemort wanted to do! It’s not right.”

“Don’t be naïve, Potter.” Malfoy didn’t even sound angry anymore, only resigned. “They lived through two wars in which Death Eaters destroyed their homes and murdered their friends and family members. They hate us. If they could, a lot of them would gladly finish us off with their own hands. They’ll never speak on our behalf or agree with anybody who does, and you’re an idiot if you believe you could change it.”

Harry didn’t reply – what could he have said? Malfoy went back to staring down at his hands.

In the end, it was Ron who got up and started fumbling with the kettle to make tea. Harry hadn’t had supper yet, and although he didn’t feel hungry anymore in the slightest, he got up as well and started putting cups, plates, and cutlery on the table. Kreacher had made roast beef sandwiches before he had come home, and now Harry put them on the table together with some cheese and grapes.

They didn’t speak during eating. Ron and Hermione had eaten already and only sipped their tea, and Harry forced down a sandwich without tasting anything. Malfoy, on the other hand, ate with ravenous appetite again, not looking any of them in the eye. 

Harry tried his best not to stare at him, but found that he couldn’t help it – he’d dished up supper only because he was now convinced that Malfoy hadn’t had anything since the breakfast Harry had invited him to, and Harry wondered what it must feel like to be so hungry. Not that he hadn’t gone without far too often at the Dursleys’, but he’d never truly had to worry about where his next meal would come from, he’d never feared that he might starve. 

Malfoy didn’t deserve this. Now that he knew the reason why he was trying to force him into this marriage business, Harry found that he pitied him and wanted to help him somehow.

Was there really no other way for him to survive other than marrying Harry? Malfoy himself didn’t seem to think so, and he’d had years to try out every alternative, had somehow eked out a living and taken care of his sick mother, always hiding from the Ministry, while Harry had lived without a care in the world most of the time. 

It wasn’t right – the thought had gone through Harry’s head during the Malfoys’ trial already – it wasn’t right that Malfoy should be punished like this essentially because he’d been born to the wrong parents. If Harry had been born into an old pure-blood family with Death Eaters as parents, would he have acted any differently? He’d like to think yes, but he knew he couldn’t be certain. More than that, he knew that it was rather unlikely.

Watching Malfoy take bite after bite, chew, and swallow, his eyes fixed on the food in front of him almost as if it might vanish if he looked elsewhere, Harry realised that his anger was more and more diminishing. Malfoy wanted to use him, yes, but if Harry was in the same situation and saw no other choice, wouldn’t he do the same?

But didn’t Malfoy have anybody who – wait, hadn’t he said something about Andromeda giving him money? If they had reconciled enough for her to help her sister and nephew out in the past, why wouldn’t Malfoy ask her for help? 

When the last sandwich and the last piece of cheese were gone, Malfoy wrapped his hands around his teacup and instead stared into the tea. He didn’t seem to want to continue the conversation, and truth be told, neither did Harry. But they had to come to some kind of conclusion, and so Harry drank the last sips from his own cup before he asked, “What about Andromeda? You said she gave you money before. Couldn’t she help you?”

“It’s illegal,” Ron said. He’d been surprisingly quiet, not reacting to the last insult Malfoy had thrown at him, and Harry had been grateful for it. “It’s illegal for, well . . . anybody to give him anything, even relatives.”

“Yes. That didn’t stop her from doing it several times, but . . .” Malfoy shook his head tiredly. “They caught us. Threatened her with taking away the boy, Teddy. Somebody who would aid Death Eaters couldn’t possibly be fit to raise a child, that’s what they said. After that, she couldn’t risk it anymore.”

Harry was stunned. Why hadn’t Andromeda told him about it? They’d developed a friendship since Teddy had come to live with her, and he’d visited regularly about twice a month before he had left for New York. Even then, he’d stopped by every time he had returned for a visit. He hadn’t seen them since he’d come back to England for good two months ago, but he’d been thinking of Firecalling this week.

“They finally allowed her to take Mother in a few weeks ago,” Malfoy went on, “but only after months of appeals to the Ministry, and after they had made absolutely certain that even if she had access to proper food and medication, Mother couldn’t possibly recover.” He was clutching his cup so tightly Harry though it might crack at any moment. “All those medical consultants from the Ministry circling her like vultures, subjecting her to useless tests although the Healers had made it clear years ago that she only had a few years left, no matter what. But they ‘had to make certain everything was going according to the law’.” 

“I’m sorry, Draco. That’s horrible.”

Malfoy looked at Hermione with an indefinable expression that Harry interpreted as a mixture between disgust and gratitude.

“At least she’s well taken care of now,” Malfoy said. “But I can’t put Andromeda and Teddy in danger, and I can’t risk going to Azkaban and missing Mother’s . . . I have to be here when it is time.” He pressed his lips together for a moment and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly on the thin neck. “And even after that, I don’t think I can go on like this.”

He’d forced out the words, and Harry knew it must have cost him every ounce of willpower to admit these things in front of him, Ron, and Hermione of all people.

“I want to help you, I really do,” he said. “All of this is terribly wrong.”

“Then form the Blood Bond with me. It’s the only way.”

By now, Harry had realised that there truly seemed to be no other option than for Malfoy to marry somebody who’d support him, but there was one thing that he still didn’t understand.

“Why does it have to be a Blood Bond?” he asked. “Why not simple marriage? I marry you, we keep it up for a year or two, then we divorce. While we’re married, I buy you a nice house that you can keep, and we’ll set up a marriage contact in which I agree to pay you alimony for as long as you live in case that we separate. That way, you won’t have to worry about anything and we can both go on with our lives.” 

Part of him still couldn’t believe that he was even making the offer – this was Malfoy, after all. But Harry pushed those thoughts aside; they were childish and inappropriate in a situation like this. He could do this. He could be married to Malfoy for two years, and he could definitely spare the money. It wouldn’t be that big of a sacrifice, and it would save Malfoy and his mother. Not to mention himself.

Slowly, Malfoy raised his head. He seemed to look even worse now than before eating: drawn, humiliated, and plain tired. He didn’t even have to say the words for Harry to understand.

“It’s too easy,” Harry said, and now all that he felt was dread. “That’s it, right? Find somebody willing to keep up a sham marriage for some time, then separate and arrange it so the former Death Eater is taken care of financially. It’s forbidden for you to simply marry.”

Malfoy nodded. “They only allow us to marry somebody who wasn’t a Death Eater when it’s a Blood Bond, so that we can’t trick them. So that the other person only marries us if they really mean it. Once you are blood-bonded, you can’t divorce – it would kill you. As would living apart for too long, eventually, like it did with Father. The only way to break the bond is through death.”

“Malfoy . . . Draco.” Harry knew it was useless, but he had to say it nonetheless. “I don’t want this. I can’t. Not for life.”

“I know,” Malfoy muttered, eyes returning to his tea. He sounded almost ashamed, but there was a steely edge underneath. “I don’t want it either. But I will force you if you won’t do it voluntarily. I have to. Just this once, I have the law on my side, and I’ve got to save myself.”

.-.-.-.-.

“The Healer is here.” Ron entered the living room of #12 Grimmauld Place, followed by a tall grey-haired woman in green robes. 

It was ten o‘clock in the morning on Friday, September 3rd, 2007, five days after Malfoy had come back into Harry’s life with the demand that he marry him. And today would be their wedding day.

Ron and Hermione had arrived an hour ago, finding Harry and Ginny in the kitchen, picking at their breakfast. Harry had asked Ginny to spend the night – just as a friend, nothing more, and they had mindlessly watched TV on the couch until after midnight. At some point, Harry had cried, and Ginny had held him until he’d been able to calm down again. She had kissed him, then, a long, gentle kiss, and he had asked her to sleep in his bed. They had lain in the dark, Harry’s head between her breasts, and talked about Hogwarts and Quidditch. After a while, Harry had fallen asleep with Ginny stroking his back.

In the morning, he had awoken at six with a sense of complete surrealism, and it had only intensified when Malfoy had turned up at nine-thirty, looking pallid and bleary-eyed. Harry had wondered what he might have been up to the previous night. Go out and pick somebody up to have sex with a partner of his own choosing for the last time without being punished? Harry had thought of doing it, but had realised he wasn’t in the mood. 

Or maybe – it had been the first time the idea occurred to him – Malfoy had a relationship he had to break off for this? Maybe he’d spent this last night with his partner? Suddenly, Harry had been very glad that he wasn’t in any kind of relationship himself. He couldn’t imagine having to give up the person he loved forever for a union of necessity, and he didn’t even want to begin thinking about the fact that he very well might fall in love again at some point in his life. For now, all he wanted was to get through the day.

“Harry?” He blinked and found that it was Ginny, who was touching his arm. “The Healer is here. Are you all right?”

He almost would have laughed in her face, but pulled himself together just in time. He still couldn’t believe it was actually happening – that he was getting engaged and then married to Malfoy. And not simply married like normal people, but blood-bonded for life to somebody he couldn’t stand, and who couldn’t stand him. The first thing he’d done on Tuesday morning had been to hand in a formal protest against the Reparation Laws, but Percy Weasley, who was the person dealing with such matters, had crushed his hopes.

“They won’t even look at it," he’d said unhappily. “Never mind your name being on it. Anything concerning Death Eaters that’s not about worsening their lives is going straight into the bin. I can’t do anything about it. I’m sorry, Harry.”

“Yes, don’t worry,” Harry said to Ginny now.

The Healer’s name was Mercer, and she didn’t seem to be particularly taken with the whole affair. When Harry had made the appointment with her two days ago, she had stared at him quite incredulously when he’d informed her for what he would need her, and that hadn’t changed when he had told her who it was he would be blood-bonded to. But her business sense had won out, she had gathered herself and even managed a smile as she had educated him on the dangers of the ritual as it would take place and the procedure she would perform on him to heal the wound.

“Mr Potter,” she now greeted him, and then nodded into Malfoy’s direction. “Mr Malfoy.”

Malfoy didn’t react. He was sitting in one of the red armchairs next to the bookshelves at the other end of the room, looking ahead with a slightly vacant expression. Harry wondered what he might be thinking. Maybe it was the hex he'd have to cast now - on Wednesday morning, they'd gone to the Ministry together and announced their intention to get blood bonded. There had been a lot of disdainful looks and whispers, and it had taken almost five hours until they had been able to leave with the information that on Friday, between ten and eleven in the morning, the restrictions on Draco's magic would be modified so that he would be able to cast the _Sectumsempra_ curse for this one hour.

“Are you certain you want to go through with this?” Healer Mercer asked.

“I am. You brought everything?”

She nodded. “I’m well prepared, you need not worry.”

“All right. Then I suppose we should start.”

Hermione, who had listened, went over to Malfoy, talking to him softly. He blinked a few times in confusion, but then nodded and slowly got up.

Harry began taking off his shirt. It was more than unfortunate that the engagement had to be sealed with the same hex Harry had used on Malfoy – there were enough dark hexes less severe than this. But Healer Mercer had a good reputation, and Harry trusted her – and, if need be, Hermione – to take care of him properly.

“Good luck,” Ginny said. Her face was very serious and her eyes very dark, and when Harry wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her, like she had done the night before, she didn’t resist. Her body was warm and solid against him, and for a moment, he felt as if his legs might give in. But the moment passed, they pulled apart, and Harry walked away from her to stand before the red couch that belonged to the reading corner.

Malfoy had taken his position in front of the opposite wall, and now Ron and Hermione came over to Harry, standing on both sides of him to support him once he would fall. Healer Mercer was standing only a few steps to the side, her bag next to her, wand at the ready.

Ginny had taken a parchment from the coffee table, which contained the traditional words for the acceptance of a Blood Proposal.

“Are you ready?” she asked Harry.

He nodded.

She turned to Malfoy. “And you?”

Another nod.

“All right.” She raised the parchment. Her voice was shaking, and she stumbled a little over the old-fashioned words as she read.

“Dost thou, Draco Malfoy, accept Harry Potter’s Blood Proposal? Dost thou accept his vow to provide for thee, honour and protect thee and thy family from this day forward until death do ye part? And dost thou vow to provide him with a blood heir if he so desireth, and to honour him and his family from this day forward till death do ye part?”

“I do, and death shall take him if we are not bound within the week.”

Malfoy’s face was set into an expression of grim determination, and Harry gritted his teeth and braced himself against the pain. 

“Be strong, Harry,” Hermione whispered. He felt her and Ron’s hold on him tighten, their fingers digging into his naked shoulders. “Remember, we’ve got the Healer here. It will hurt, but nothing serious can happen.”

Harry nodded, then he saw Malfoy take a deep breath before he raised his wand.

“ _Sectumsempra_!”

.-.-.-.-.

When Harry came to, he felt dizzy and disoriented. His sight was blurred, there was a dull pain in his chest, and when he instinctively tried to sit up, a feeling of weakness rushed through him, making him slump down again. A hand touched his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Harry, don’t.” Ginny’s voice. “You need to lie down for a while.”

He blinked, and the world slowly came into focus. There was Ginny, sitting next to him on the edge of what he now realised was the red couch in the living room. Healer Mercer was standing behind her, as well as Ron and Hermione, looking down on him with a frown on her face. When he turned his head, he could see that Malfoy was back in the armchair, bent forwards, his face hidden in his hands.

“How do you feel?” Mercer asked.

“I’m . . . okay, I think. Weak and exhausted. A bit dizzy. And my chest hurts.”

She nodded. “I can give you a painkilling potion if you want. It should last for another few hours, and I’ll leave you some here for the weekend. Mr Malfoy did well – there was only one slash, right across the chest, and the essence of Dittany worked perfectly. There won’t be any scarring if you keep the bandages on long enough. And you didn’t lose too much blood. I’d say you will be fine come Monday, but I’d prefer if you stayed in bed for the rest of the day.”

“No.” They had planned everything before, and both Harry and Malfoy had agreed to seal the engagement and then go to the Ministry to sign the papers and finalise the Blood Bond on the same day. They both wanted it to be over with before either of them could do something stupid. “I’ll go to the Ministry this afternoon, as planned. We’ve got an appointment at five.”

Mercer sighed. “As you wish. If you eat a proper meal or two and don’t strain yourself before you leave, it shouldn’t be dangerous. But don’t be surprised if you feel dizzy or faint.” 

“We’ll be going with them,” Ron said. “We’ll take care in case something happens.”

“All right, then,” Mercer said. “If you need anything, you can always Firecall me over the weekend. And make sure to keep the bandages on until tomorrow evening. If the healing process is disturbed, there will be scarring despite the Dittany treatment.”

“Thank you, I won’t forget it. And I’d appreciate it if you left some painkillers here.”

Mercer rummaged in her bag and put several small flasks on the coffee table. “I’ll be back on Monday, then.”

When she was gone, Ginny handed Harry one of the flasks for the pain in his chest, and Ron vanished to the kitchen to make tea and get some of the leftover breakfast for Harry. “You heard the Healer,” he said when Harry protested that he wasn’t hungry.

Harry just wanted to ask Hermione if she would mind giving him his shirt when he noticed that she was with Malfoy now, kneeling in front of his armchair and talking to him in a low voice. Malfoy hadn’t moved, his face was still buried in his hands, but after a while there was a muffled answer.

Hermione nodded, got up and quickly left the room. What could they have talked about?

“Harry?” Ginny had cupped his cheek and was looking down on him with tears in her eyes. She’d been much calmer than he had expected when he had told her about it all on Wednesday afternoon, and she had comforted him when he’d needed it yesterday. But now she suddenly seemed shaken.

“I didn’t . . . When we were together I never doubted we’d have children one day. I never told you, but even when it was over, even though I _wanted_ it to be over, somehow, I still thought that maybe, one day . . .” She shook her head with a sad smile. “It didn’t quite feel real last night, but now . . .”

“Now it is,” Harry murmured. A thick strand of copper hair had fallen into her face, and he reached up and tucked it behind her ear. He felt awfully tired. “You’ll find someone and have wonderful children. And nothing will change between us, I promise. We’ll always be family.”

He didn’t want to think about it, about how they’d lain in bed after sex, talking about starting a family one day, about how many kids they wanted, about names for girls and boys. Somehow, although he hadn’t wanted to be with her anymore these last years, now it seemed to hurt almost more than when they’d split up. It made no sense, and Harry hated it, and also Malfoy for causing all of this. Now he would never have children – not that he and Ginny could ever have had them without Malfoy rejecting the Blood Proposal.

“You’ll be their favourite uncle,” Ginny said, taking her hand away from his face to wipe at her eyes.

“M-hm . . .” Harry didn’t want to talk any longer, or think; he only wanted to sleep. Breakfast could wait. He closed his eyes and thankfully, Ginny stayed silent and it didn’t take long before he dozed off.

.-.-.-.-.

The Ministry clerk, a small man with shifty eyes in a rodent-like face, was looking down at the forms on his desk with a frown. He’d spent the better part of ten minutes rummaging through cupboards and drawers before finally, he’d found what he had been looking for, all the while muttering about outdated rituals and backwards attitudes.

His frown only intensified when he finally looked up and his eyes met Harry’s.

“Are you certain you want to do this, Mr Potter?” The man cleared his throat, his eyes wandering over to Malfoy, mouth twisting into a grimace as though he were looking at a disgusting insect he wanted to squash. “Are you certain you want to marry one of _them_?”

“Actually, yes,” Harry said. “I’m very certain.” Certain that he didn’t want this at all, but that wasn’t any of this bigoted little rat’s business. He still wished for nothing more than to wake up and realise this was all a bad dream, but the disdain oozing from the clerk’s every pore infuriated him. It was precisely that attitude which had brought him here.

“And if you don’t mind,” Malfoy said acidly, “I’m right here. I can hear you. So I’d suggest you refrain from any inappropriate remarks and simply do your job. If your curdled little brain permits it, that is.”

The clerk didn’t bat an eye, but looked down on the forms again. “Very well. There’s nothing _legally_ wrong with the marriage contract.” 

He managed to make it sound as if it went without saying that any document which granted somebody like Malfoy a reasonable monthly allowance, a third of his spouse’s fortune in case of death, and full spousal rights in all other matters – except for medical decisions – was one of the most morally reprehensible things ever to be conceived of.

“All I need are your respective signatures to make it official. And also signatures here on the marriage registration form, and here, to confirm the Blood Bond.” He shoved the papers to the edge of his desk, and Harry leant forward on his chair and took the waiting quill.

‘This is it,’ he thought when the quill scratched over the paper. Now it was official. When he handed the quill to Malfoy, his head was spinning, and he had to close his eyes. He wasn’t quite sure if it was residual weakness due to the _Sectumsempra_ earlier in the day or because of the madness of it all.

“Now there’s the final sealing of the Blood Bond,” the clerk said when he’d put the Ministry’s official stamp on all three documents. Harry had briefly glimpsed the signature _Draco Malfoy-Potter_ and his stomach had clenched into a tight lump. “If you would please rise.”

Harry did, and watched as the man pulled out his wand and performed a cleaning spell on the small ceremonial dagger and the golden goblet he’d previously found in one of the cupboards in the far corner of the room. They were both coated in dust and obviously hadn’t been used in quite a while.

Hermione, who had kept to the background with Ron and Ginny until now, stepped forward and put a bottle of red wine and the box with the rings on the desk. Harry had asked her to get the rings for them during the week – he’d not felt capable of doing it himself.

Once the clerk had poured wine into the goblet, he got up as well and held out the dagger to Harry, while holding the parchment from which he read in the other hand. 

“Wilt thou, Harry Potter,” he intoned, “mix thy blood with Draco Malfoy’s blood? Wilt thou grant him thy name and protection? Wilt thou bind thyself to him irrevocably, in full knowledge of all that a Blood Bound entails, to be thy lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do ye part?”

“I will.” Harry’s hand was shaking when he received the dagger, and for a second, he feared he’d cut off his index finger, but then he managed to only prick the tip of it. Ten droplets of blood fell into the goblet which Hermione was holding for them, then the clerk closed the wound with a simple spell.

“And wilt thou, Draco Malfoy mix thy blood with Harry Potter’s blood? Wilt thou accept his name and protection? Wilt thou bind thyself to him irrevocably, in full knowledge of all that a Blood Bound entails, to be thy lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do ye part?”

“I will.”

Harry gave the dagger to Malfoy, who repeated his actions.

“Then drink now from this cup to seal the bond between you.” The clerk pointed his wand at the goblet. “ _Sanguis coniunge_!”

A bright red light engulfed the goblet, and to Harry’s amazement, two figures formed in this light which he recognised as himself and Malfoy. They were facing each other, their hands entwined, and they leant in and kissed before dissolving into light again. Moments after, the light dimmed down to a faint glow.

It was a cruel farce – he and Malfoy would never be like this, nor would he have it with anybody else. At this moment, Harry felt as if he’d never hated anybody more than Malfoy, not even Voldemort.

Hermione handed the goblet to him, and instead of throwing it on the floor like he wanted to, he raised it to his lips and drank, although he felt as if he’d have to gag if he swallowed even one drop. But he managed to force down a mouthful before giving the goblet to Malfoy, whose face had adopted a greenish tinge. When their fingers brushed, Harry noticed that his skin was icy cold.

Malfoy, in contrast to Harry, did gag and choked on the wine, and tears were running down his cheeks by the time he could stop coughing and drank. His eyes were burning as he looked at Harry over the goblet, and Harry was reminded of the fact that he wasn’t the only one who hated all of this.

The same red light as before now began pulsing around Harry and Malfoy. It seemed to be seeping from their skin, their auras of light growing wider and wider until they touched and then melted into each other. For the fraction of a second, Harry felt an incredible heat rush through his veins, then the feeling vanished, and with it the light, which got dimmer and more translucent before it extinguished completely.

“Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy-Potter, your bond has been sealed and you are bound by blood forever.” 

It sounded like a prison sentence. 

“May this union be a happy one,” the clerk droned on, clearly unconvinced, as Harry and Malfoy took the golden rings, “may the sun and the moon rise over it for many years. May it be blessed with pure children to continue the line of both families, and may the joint line never end. So mote it be.”

Harry drew a shaky breath before he and Malfoy put the rings on each other’s ring fingers and repeated in unison, “So mote it be.”

.-.-.-.-.

Harry was sitting on the couch in the living room, staring at the TV without truly taking in the programme. After the ceremony, he’d sent Ron, Ginny, and Hermione home; he’d no longer been able to stand their worried faces and – albeit unspoken – pity. Later, Malfoy and he had stared at the supper Kreacher had prepared until it had gone cold, and then they’d agreed on watching TV. Harry had felt no desire to talk to his ‘husband’, and Malfoy seemed to share the feeling. They’d simply sat in silence, watching the pictures flicker over the screen. 

For a while, Harry had been absorbed with going over the ritual in his mind. It had been completely absurd: the drinking of each other’s blood – he’d been relieved it was no more than a few drops, but it had still been disgusting – the ancient English, the phrases full of ridiculous pathos. _So mote it be_ , seriously.

Now it was around eleven in the evening, he was tired and should go to bed, but he didn’t quite feel up to it.

The problem was Malfoy.

He was sitting next to Harry on the couch, and once Harry went to bed, he’d have to come with him.

Both Healer Mercer and the Ministry clerk had stressed the fact that Harry and Malfoy would have to spend the next 24 hours close to each other for their magic to settle down properly after forming the bond. They’d gone through an unpleasant experience after the others had gone home, when they’d collected Malfoy’s few things from his old flat – a tiny dump in a shabby Muggle neighbourhood – where he’d lived with his mother. Malfoy had gone to the loo, and immediately after the door had closed behind him, Harry’s head had begun hurting madly and he’d felt chilled to the marrow. A short while later, Malfoy had stumbled out of the bathroom pressing both hands to his temples – he’d looked close to vomiting to Harry. From then on, they had been careful to never be more than two feet apart.

Walking side by side, sitting next to each other at the kitchen table and on the couch – it was strange, but he could deal with it. Sleeping in the same bed, though . . . Harry rubbed at his eyes and tried to focus on the telly. The action film had given way to an animal documentary in which an alligator had just caught some kind of gazelle, dragging it underwater.

There was an abrupt movement beside him, and he saw that Malfoy had grabbed the remote from the coffee table. They telly was switched off.

“I’m tired,” Malfoy sad. “We’ll go to bed now.”

“No,” Harry heard himself say. “I want to watch that. Give me the remote.” He held his hand out, all the while asking himself what he was doing. He wasn’t interested in the documentary, and he was tired enough to fall asleep on the spot. But he’d be damned if he let Malfoy order him about like this. If he let it happen on the first day of their marriage, he’d only set a precedence.

The rational part of his brain told him that he was being ridiculous. There was no use fighting simply out of spite, and tomorrow evening, the whole matter of being stuck together would be over with. He’d never have to even look at Malfoy again if he didn’t want it.

Only it would never be over, not really. He’d be stuck with Malfoy for the rest of his life, quite possibly over a hundred years. He would never be free again. 

“Just come to bed,” Malfoy insisted.

Harry shook his head and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Stop dishing out orders, you arrogant prick! I’m not your house-elf!”

“I haven’t owned a house-elf in nine years, in case you’ve forgotten! Now come! I’m sick of us sitting here and brooding, and you are too. You’re tired, I can see that, and it’s no use fighting now. What _is_ it with you?”

“ _You_! It’s you, you git!” Harry snapped. He couldn’t contain his anger any longer – the entire week, he’d pulled himself together, had told himself that Malfoy didn’t like this any better than him, that he didn’t have a choice, that Harry might do the same if he had to. But now all he felt was rage, and it had to get out. He’d jumped up from the couch, glaring down at Malfoy, stabbing his index finger into his direction. “You’re in _my_ house on _my_ couch telling me what to do, after you forced me to bind myself to you forever! I can’t marry, I can’t have a girlfriend, I can’t even kiss without my magic whacking me over the head! And I’ve got to live with a snooty bugger who worked cleaning toilets and still thinks his shit smells better than others’!”

Harry knew that he was being unfair, but right now all that he wanted was to hit Malfoy’s sore spot, punish him for ruining everything. “You ruined my life because your family was too dumb to make the right choices! Your parents threw their lives and yours away because they thought they were better than everyone else – well, look where it got them! And look where it got you. This is ridiculous! We’re married, and we _hate_ each other! And it will go on for the rest of our lives; we’ll be resenting the hell out of each other for existing! I know I do! I wish I’d left you to sizzle along with Crabbe!”

It was only when he fell silent that Harry realised he’d been yelling – and what exactly he’d said in the end. Malfoy didn’t respond, but was looking back at him with a stony expression. Slowly, he rose from the couch, eyes still glued to Harry’s, only to then turn and walk away without a word.

Immediately, the headache set in, and Harry groaned in pain.

“No wait!” He stumbled after Malfoy and reached out, grabbing him by the wrist.

The punch was hard and sudden, hitting him right on the eye and sending his glasses flying. Harry staggered, but caught himself and reflexively swung and punched back. There was a yelp and a disgusting crunching noise as his fist met with Malfoy’s face, and then Malfoy went down.

The room was spinning before Harry’s eyes, and he, too, slumped down on the thick carpet. Luckily, the dizzy spell was over within a few moments, and the headache was abating as well. He touched his eyebrow and winced; he’d definitely get a black eye if he didn’t apply a magical salve quickly. But when he reached for his wand to summon it from the upstairs bathroom, his eyes fell on Malfoy, who was bent forwards, his face between his legs, hands fisted around bushels of his hair. His breathing was shallow, and blood was gushing from his nose.

Damn. This wasn’t good at all. The majority of his anger at Malfoy evaporated as suddenly as it had flared up. He hadn’t wanted to seriously hurt him – or well, he had, but not like this. Harry quickly took his wand out of his pocket and summoned his glasses, which, as he found, were broken. He repaired them, put them back on, and then turned his attention to Malfoy.

“Are you okay?” He got no answer.

Carefully, he scooted closer, but when he touched his arm, Malfoy flinched and curled up tighter. 

“Don’t touch me!” he hissed.

“Don’t be daft. Your nose is bleeding, maybe it’s broken. I got some training with healing charms in the Auror programme. Let me have a look.”

Malfoy stubbornly shook his head, and Harry sighed in frustration. He wouldn’t be able to do anything but sit here with him until Malfoy would decide to get up again. This fight was a decidedly bad start to this marriage business, and it certainly couldn’t go on like this.

“Look,” he tried, “I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry. For what I said about your parents. It was completely inappropriate. And what I said about you . . . I didn’t really mean that either. Well, I did, but was mad and I snapped, you’ve got to understand that.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything, but at least he was listening. And Harry did mean what he said.

“I can’t really imagine what it must have been like to realise you’d have to come to me to save yourself. And you’ve got to admit that’s it’s just as bad for me. We’ll never be friends, but we both know that we’ve got to learn to get along somehow. Maybe we can just . . . try not to fight? Try to respect each other?”

While part of him was telling him how absurd it was to talk about respect with Malfoy of all people, Malfoy finally looked up and nodded slowly.

“Not one word about my parents,” he said. “I don’t care what you say about me, but I’ll break more than just your nose if you ever insult them again.”

It wasn’t exactly what Harry had meant by ‘getting along’, but it was probably all he would get.

“Fine,” he said. “Now let me have a look at your nose.”

The nose was indeed broken, as Harry learnt when he cast a simple diagnostic spell, but he did have a bottle of Skele-gro in his medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and he managed to stop the bleeding with another spell. 

The fake domesticity they were forced into by the bond when they got ready for bed was unnerving: brushing their teeth together, taking the remedies for their injuries as well as painkilling potions, changing into their nightclothes while carefully turning their backs to each other. They got a second duvet from the room Malfoy had chosen as his and put his things into – at the other end of the corridor – and then it was time.

Luckily, the bed was big enough to give them both ample space, and when the lights were switched off and Harry had closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that he was alone.

“Potter?”

“What?” Harry sure hoped Malfoy wasn’t the type to get all talkative in bed – not that he’d have to endure it more than once. 

“What about children? Do you want any?”

“Absolutely _not_!”

“Good.” Malfoy sounded clearly relieved, as much as Harry felt. At least they agreed on something about this marriage.

Pulling his covers up to his nose, Harry refused to think about how he’d planned children with Ginny, as well as the idea that surely, Malfoy had planned to continue his line. This was how it would be. They’d have to deal with it. 

Malfoy had shut up now and thanks to the painkilling potion, the eye didn’t hurt and the dull ache in his chest, which had returned while they had watched TV, had vanished again. Much to his relief, he was tired enough to fall quickly asleep. 

.-.-.-.-.

“Hi, Uncle Harry.” 

At nine years old, Teddy felt a little too grown-up for hugs from anybody but his granny, Harry had learnt that when he’d come home to England for a short visit on Teddy’s birthday. Now though, not having seen Harry for almost four months, he seemed to have forgotten it and flung his arms around him.

“Hello Teddy, what did you do with your ears?”

Teddy grinned widely, freeing himself from Harry’s embrace and stepping away from the door to let him in. “It’s great, isn’t it? I finally did it, when you were still in America! I can do more animals too, do you want to see me as an elephant?” He gave Harry no time to answer, but screwed his eyes shut tightly, nose scrunched up in concentration. Slowly, the white rabbit ears sticking out from under green hair turned grey and then bigger and bigger, until they hung down over his shoulders.

“That’s quite the sight,” Malfoy said behind Harry.

Teddy opened his eyes again. “Uncle Draco? Do you want to visit your mum?”

Malfoy nodded, closing the door behind him. “We both do. Where is your grandmother?”

“Upstairs, with Aunt Cissa.” Teddy looked a bit uncomfortable, and his ears shrunk to their normal size. “She just had a bath.”

“Tell you what, why don’t you and . . . Harry go and catch up? I’m sure he’s got a lot to tell you about his last months in New York. And I will go upstairs.”

“Good idea,” Harry agreed. “And I want to hear all about those new ears and if you can change anything else I don’t know of.” He herded Teddy in the direction of the kitchen while Malfoy climbed the stairs to his mother’s room.

It was Sunday, two days after the wedding, and Harry had agreed to visit Malfoy’s mother. She knew that they had married, Malfoy had told him – in fact, Hermione had sent her an owl from Grimmauld Place right after the engagement had been sealed – though he’d said that she didn’t know how much Harry resented the fact.

“She somehow got it into her head that you’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart,” he’d said when he had brought up the subject during supper the previous day. “That you did it to help me. I’m not quite sure why, it doesn’t make any sense. But the Healers said she might, well, not be quite rational anymore at some point.”

He had fixated Harry with a hard glance. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to the contrary. She doesn’t need to know, she would only get upset.”

It hadn’t been an unreasonable request, and – partly out of guilt over what he’d said on Friday evening – Harry had agreed to go along with it, as had Andromeda, according to Malfoy.

For about half an hour, Harry sat in the sunlit kitchen, drinking pumpkin juice, telling Teddy about hunting Wizarding criminals down in the New York sewer system – never mentioning how eerie it had been and how frightened he had actually felt – and appropriately admiring all the different animal ears he was shown.

“And I want to have the elephant trunk to the ears,” Teddy was just saying. “I can only turn my nose grey so far, but if I practise every day I can get there in a month. Granny said that’s how long it took Mum.”

“Well, I’d like to see that grey nose of yours now already.”

Hearing Malfoy’s voice, Harry turned towards the door to find that he and Andromeda had joined them, and he got up and hugged her. “How are you?”

“All right,” she said softly enough so that Teddy couldn’t hear her. “I’m glad they allowed me to have her here, but it’s hard to see her like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, holding her a bit tighter for a few moments before letting go.

She nodded. “We’ll manage. Teddy likes having somebody else to show his metamorphic skills to, and Cissa can feel like a grandmother for a while.” She managed a small smile. “Thank you, Harry. Draco told me you won’t tell her the truth. That’s . . . it will mean a lot to her. And to Draco and me.”

Harry shrugged awkwardly. “It would be cruel. There’s no need.”

“Do you want to go and see her now? She’s expecting you.”

“Yes. Is there anything I should watch out for?”

“She shouldn’t get upset, that’s all. If you need me, just call. It’s the old guest room right next to the bathroom.”

“All right.” Before he made for the door, Harry looked over to Malfoy, who was just explaining to Teddy, that yes, he and Harry were really married now, and that no, they hadn’t been thinking about how to have children yet.

“When I asked Aunt Cissa, she said there are spells.”

Harry left it to Malfoy and Andromeda to find some excuse for Teddy and left the kitchen. Upstairs, he hesitated for a few moments before he knocked and then carefully opened the door to Mrs Malfoy’s room. He didn’t look forward to lying to her, and to having to accept her gratitude for something he didn’t do.

The room was as sunlit as the kitchen, the drapes pulled back from the high window. It looked very tidy and clean, a vase of bright yellow tulips was standing on the old-fashioned dresser on the opposite wall of the bed, and the white sheets and covers on the bed were crisp and spotless. The window was open and fresh summer air filled the room, but still, there was an underlying hint of the unmistakable smell of illness, and the bedside table stood full of potion flasks and other utensils.

And there was no mistaking that Mrs Malfoy must be very sick. Her skin barely stood out against the sheets, she was too thin, and Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that he was looking at a much older woman. Her hair had lost its shine, hanging over her shoulder in a thin, fraying plait, and when Harry came closer, he saw deep lines around her mouth and eyes. She was leaning against several pillows propped up high behind her back, and while she smiled when she saw him, he didn’t miss that she looked strained, as if sitting like this were too taxing. 

There was a beige chintz armchair standing next to the bed, and he sat down, not quite knowing what to say.

“Mrs Malfoy . . .”

“Please, call me Narcissa.” Her voice had aged as well, sounding brittle and tired.

“Narcissa, then.”

“Did Teddy show you his elephant ears?” she asked.

“Of course, he entertained me with all the ears he can do.”

“Me too – I’m certain I have seen at least two dozen. He’s a sweet boy; it’s good that I finally got to know him. I should have reached out much sooner. By now it seems very foolish that I turned from my sister in the first place.”

There was an uncomfortable silence; Harry had not been expecting any such private confessions.

“Harry, I know this must be very awkward for you. I haven’t forgotten what my family . . . after everything that happened . . .” She trailed off, apparently trying to compose herself. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said quietly after a while.

“You shouldn’t.” There was nothing he should be thanked for; wanting to save his own life wasn’t heroic at all. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You saved Draco,” she insisted. “These last years . . . He tried so hard to provide for us, he worked all these Muggle jobs, and he would have managed if there weren’t these new laws. And maybe if I hadn’t got sick . . .”

“It’s not right,” Harry said softly, careful not to show just how angry he got even thinking of these laws which had trapped him in this. “He doesn’t deserve that, none of you do.”

“I knew you would think so. When Draco first mentioned that he would go and call on your proposal, I knew you would understand.”

Harry had no idea what to reply; could she honestly believe that he had simply agreed to be bonded to Malfoy, to give up his own dreams of a relationship and family for somebody who hated him? But he was spared the answer: while he was still searching for words, she went rigid and began coughing, a harsh, hollow cough deep in her chest that was painful to listen to. It didn’t seem to stop; she went even paler, and droplets of sweat began to form on her forehead.

Harry wasn’t sure what he should do – should he call Andromeda or Malfoy? But just when he was about to get up, the coughing finally stopped. Narcissa took a few deep, wheezing breaths and reached out for him, thin hand trembling slightly. 

Her skin was cold to the touch and he would have expected her grasp to be weak, but her fingers closed around his with surprising strength. “I know it was a hard decision, Harry. You wouldn’t have chosen him if things were different. I’m not stupid. Lucius and I did not choose each other either. In my sixth and seventh year at Hogwarts, I was quite madly in love with a young wizard from another house. He loved me as well, but he was bound by a Blood Proposal already. And Lucius had been promised my sister Andromeda. He was fond of her, but she cared nothing for him. When she ran away, I was the second prize, so to speak. We were both miserable on our wedding day.”

She closed her eyes, and her grip loosened. The shadows under her eyes seemed darker now, the lines around her mouth more pronounced. “It is hard when there is nothing between you in the beginning, but if you try . . . we managed. We had a child, and we belonged together, and after some years . . . He wasn’t perfect, but he tried to be a good husband and father, and I tried as well, and we did come to love each other, eventually. And you cared enough to do this for Draco.”

At least she hadn’t been forced into the marriage under a death threat, Harry thought. He couldn’t imagine ever developing any kind of tender feelings for Malfoy. They might come to tolerate each other, live separate lives in the same house without fighting, as they had agreed upon when they had talked the arrangement over and drafted the marriage contract, but anything else seemed too far-fetched.

“I’ll try my best,” he said. “I’m sure Draco will too.”

Narcissa nodded; her hand had gone limp in his and she was lying back heavily against the pillows. It seemed as if his short visit had used up her strength. “Would you please send him to me now? I would like to sleep.”

“All right.” Harry carefully put her hand back on the sheets. “I’ll . . . if you want, when I come to see Teddy and Andromeda, I could . . .”

“Thank you. That would be lovely.” She smiled weakly without opening her eyes.

“I’ll see you next time, then.”

Damn! Why had he offered to visit her? Harry shook his head to himself when he had left the room and descended the stairs. It would only be horribly awkward. But when he entered the kitchen and Malfoy turned to look at him with an expression of anxious anticipation, nervously running his hand through his hair, he realised that it was the right thing to do. He could visit with Narcissa for a few minutes every two weeks.

“It went well,” he said. “And she wants you now. She’s tired.”

Malfoy put his glass away and got up. When he passed Harry, he stopped for a moment.

“You didn’t tell her?”

Harry shook his head. “She doesn’t suspect anything. She deserves to believe we’ll be fine.”

Malfoy hesitated. “Thank you,” he finally said.

**oOoOoOoOoOo**

** Part 2: Down The Drain **

“Tell me _one_ good reason why I should get you out of there!”

Harry was glaring at his husband of four years, who was currently inside a holding cell at the Auror Department, sitting cross-legged on the wooden cot and grinning at him through the iron bars. It was the third time in as many months that he’d been arrested, and it seemed that this was becoming a pattern.

“How about you’ll miss me tonight, Potter?” Draco slurred. He was – unsurprisingly – drunk.

Harry snorted. “Right. That’s convincing.” 

Ever since the first day when they had been forced to be close for 24 hours and share a bed, they hadn’t spent more than a couple of hours together, never mind in the bedroom.

For almost two years, it hadn’t even been all that bad. They had been wary around each other, there had been constant jibes from both sides and several heated arguments, and they usually hadn’t spoken much during the meals they’d sometimes taken together. But there had been no violent fights, and they had managed to uphold a certain measure of civility most of the time. Every now and then, they had even visited Draco’s mother together, making small-talk and calling each other by their first names in front of her. That, together with Teddy and Andromeda calling him Draco, was probably how Harry had come to no longer think of him as ‘Malfoy’ – which was still rather weird.

During the day, Draco had seemed to busy himself mostly with reading; whenever Harry had entered the library, there had been another book lying on the small table next to the black leather couch in front of the fireplace, and often enough he’d found Draco there when he had come home from work. 

When Harry’s friends were visiting, Draco would usually vanish into the library as well or into his room, although a few times, Harry had found him in conversation with Luna – she later told him that Draco had protected her once from Bellatrix when she had been imprisoned at Malfoy Manor.

Come spring, Draco had taken up the task of bringing some life back into the neglected garden, cutting back the lignified rosebushes and removing the weeds which had run riot on the lawn.

“I learnt some gardening from the house-elves during the summer holidays,” he had told Harry.

A few times, on weekends, Harry had decided to help, and they had shovelled and weeded in a not altogether uncomfortable silence. After that, they’d eaten together and watched TV. Harry hadn’t expected for them to become good friends, but slowly, he had dared to hope that maybe his life wouldn’t be the catastrophe he had imagined. 

But during the summer two years ago, things had changed inexplicably. Without any obvious reason, Draco had become sullen and outright hostile, insulting Harry and Harry’s friends at every opportunity. He had stopped reading much and caring for the garden and instead begun going out frequently, often coming home drunk. More and more often, Harry had found glasses with the remainders of what smelt like Firewhiskey strewn around the house. After a few months, he’d attempted talking to Draco, but to no avail.

“It’s none of your business,” had been the answer whenever he’d tried, and a while after Luna had told him that she, too, had failed to get Draco to talk, he had given up. It wasn’t as if he much cared, and if Draco wanted to live like this, let him. Harry had his work, he had his friends and their children who loved him, and he wasn’t his fake-husband’s keeper.

Only recently, it seemed that that was what he had become.

“What was it this time?” The other two times Draco had got arrested, it had been for disturbance of the peace by night. Harry had collected him from two different Muggle police stations, just as inebriated as he was now.

“He pissed into the fountain in the Atrium,” said a male voice, and Harry turned to see Auror Pollack, grinning from ear to ear. “Flooed in, made a ruckus. Said that the Ministry was shit and everyone who worked here was shit, and that he’d show us just how much he shat on us if only he hadn’t taken a dump at home already. But that he’d gladly give a demonstration of how much we pissed him off.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Pollack was still grinning. “He’s got some balls – it’s not as if I hadn’t felt like it sometimes.”

Harry wished it had been Pollack; at least then he might get fired and Harry wouldn’t have to see his stupid face around at work all day. And he wouldn’t have to deal with this mess.

“Did you even think for one second about the consequences?” he snapped into the cell. “This is going to end up in the _Prophet_ , and what if your mother sees it by accident? Do you seriously want her to get upset over something like this? Now, when she’s so much worse? Do you _want_ her to die?”

The smug grin slowly drained from Draco’s face, being replaced with horror.

“Shit.”

“Indeed,” Harry said sharply, turning away to leave the cell block. “You’re a bloody idiot. Cross your fingers that I’ll be able to make this go away.”

Harry did manage to make it go away, at the cost of a 1,000 Galleon-fine to the Ministry and by promising the _Prophet_ an in-depth interview about his experiences in the war in addition to letting a reporter come and take photos of the inside of his house – both things he had carefully avoided before now.

Why was he even doing all of this, he asked himself on his way back to the Ministry. He was walking part of the distance, trying to cool off after the talk with the editor at the _Prophet_ , who’d been so chuffed about the outcome that Harry had wanted to punch his face in.

It certainly wasn’t for Draco. A week or two in Azkaban – now that there were no longer any Dementors – would serve him right. Maybe it would teach him a lesson. Harry sighed, rounding the corner to see the telephone booth that would take him inside the Ministry. It was because of Narcissa. For some reason, she had grown rather fond of him, and, truth be told, he of her. 

After she had lost everything and all that she had believed in had gone down the drain, according to what Harry had gathered from Draco and Andromeda, she had never complained. She had taken up a job at a Muggle fashion shop for a while, until the separation from Lucius, whom she had been forbidden to visit on Ministry orders, had made her too sick to work.

“They planned that, of course,” she had once said matter-of-factly to Harry. “Most Death Eaters were blood-bonded to their spouses, so what easier way to kill them than to forbid them to see each other for years? Minister Shacklebolt was against it, but he was overruled. Lucius got sick much quicker than I because they wouldn’t allow us to send him medication that would have helped with the effects of our separation. And also because of the bad conditions in Azkaban. It’s a terrible place even without the Dementors. When he died, the bond was broken and I might have recovered, but I was weakened already, and the Healers said I had no chance against the disease when I caught it.”

It was preposterous, as were most laws concerning former Death Eaters, and Harry had tried to talk about it to Minister Hollingberry personally. He’d actually got an appointment, but the Minster had been very clear on the matter: everyone was extremely grateful to Harry, and what he had done would never be forgotten, but it did not give him any kind of influence, and nobody cared whether or not he found fault with the law. He’d embarrassed himself and the Auror Department enough already by marrying Draco Malfoy, and it would do neither his position as an Auror nor his ‘Death Eater relations’ any good if he tried stirring up trouble.

Well, Harry thought as he stepped out of the lift and made for the holding cells, at least he had enough influence left to spare Narcissa the heartache of hearing about her son making an utter ass out of himself in public. Harry and Andromeda had kept all of Draco’s escapades from her; she deserved better than that, even Draco had admitted to that in a moment of guilt.

Harry could only hope that he’d be able to bring him home without too much of a fuss now. If he was lucky, Draco might go to bed and sleep off the alcohol.

When he arrived at the cell, he found Draco sitting on the cot with his head bowed and his hands in his hair – his usual position when he was worried or upset, as Harry had learnt. 

“Come on out,” Harry said before he unlocked the cell with his wand. “You’re free to go home, no thanks to you.”

Slowly, Draco got up, swaying a bit before he managed to walk to the door.

“The _Prophet_?” he asked with so much worry that Harry almost – but only almost – felt something like pity.

“They won’t print it. I promised them something else instead. Something about me they’d been after for a long time. Thank you _very much_ for that,” he added. “I’ve always dreamt about bailing my Death Eater husband out of media attention by stripping my soul bare to the likes of Rita Skeeter.”

“Just shut up,” Draco muttered. He swayed again, and Harry grabbed his arm, holding on only tighter when he met with resistance.

“Let’s go home. You need to sleep and sober up.”

Draco didn’t answer, but he complied when Harry led him out of the cell block and through the Ministry to the fireplaces, and he let Harry Floo them home and bring him to his room, where he curled up on his bed silently.

“Sleep,” Harry said. “Don’t do anything stupid for a while. We might not be as lucky the next time.” When he was met with no reply, he left the room, hoping for the best. 

Looking at the grandfather clock down in the living room, he realised that he was already ten minutes late. He’d been invited for supper at Luna and Percy’s, and especially their two-year-old, Frederica, would be waiting for him impatiently. For reasons unknown to everyone, he’d been her favourite ‘uncle’ from the start, and when he was there, she wouldn’t play with anybody else or let anyone but him help her or bring her to bed.

Hopefully, Draco would simply be sleeping when he came home.

.-.-.-.-.-.

When Harry entered the living room the next morning, he only needed one glance to grasp what had happened. He should have known, he told himself. He really should. It wasn’t as if this was the first time.

Two naked bodies were spread out on the big green velvet couch, barely covered with a blanket that had mostly slipped off during the night. One was Draco, the other’s face was pressed into a pillow so only the black hair was visible. Harry doubted that he knew him, though – he never did.

Wonderful. He almost wanted to leave them to their own devices, but it was unwise, especially if the stranger was a Muggle. And considering the state Draco would be in once he awoke . . .

Sighing, he approached the couch and carefully touched the black-haired bloke’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, trying to speak softly despite his irritation. “Wake up.” The answer was a sleepy moan, and Harry shook him slightly. “Come on, wake up.”

The stranger turned his head and blinked slowly. “Wha . . .?”

“It’s morning,” Harry said, taking his hand away. “Time to leave.”

“Who . . .” The bloke sat up abruptly, making the blanket slip fully to the floor and revealing his toned body. Absently, Harry registered that he was shaved. “Who’re you?”

“His husband.” Harry picked up the blanket and offered it to him. “And you’re naked in my house. I’d prefer if you left.”

It didn’t matter to him in the slightest that Draco was sleeping with somebody other than him, and he wouldn’t have bothered with any of this if it weren’t for the Blood Bond. The worst hangover was nothing against the pain Draco would be in once he woke up, and he wanted to get rid of this man as quickly as possible before having to deal with it.

The stranger stared blankly at him for a few moments before he looked down at himself, flushing furiously, and then grabbed the blanket and quickly wrapped it around himself.

“His . . . h-husband?” he stuttered. “He never said . . .”

“He tends to forget when he’s drunk. Now if you wouldn’t mind, your clothes are . . .” Harry looked around to see them strewn across the carpet close to one of the armchairs, “over there. Do you want me to call you a taxi?” 

“Um . . . yeah. Please.” The man got up and looked down at Draco for a few seconds before he shook his head. “This is awkward.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. He seemed to be lucky today, though. There had been enough of them who’d made a scene, especially when they had been wizards and Draco had woken up before or along with them. A few times, Harry had witnessed some guy yelling at Draco for not telling him he was blood-bonded, while Draco had been curled into a ball of agony on his bed or one of the couches in the living room.

The man had collected his clothes, and Harry just wanted to tell him he’d leave him to dress and call the taxi, and to please not wake Draco. 

“Master Harry? Kreacher has made the usual Saturday morning breakfast. Will Master Draco eat with Master Harry?”

Draco’s one night stand shrieked and dropped his clothes.

A Muggle, then. Lovely.

“Kreacher!” Harry couldn’t help snapping at him as he turned around to the elf standing in the doorway. “I’ve told you a thousand times not to come out of the kitchen in the morning without checking for Muggles!” House-elves could do that, they could magically feel if a Muggle was in their house. Inexplicably, Kreacher seemed to forget it again and again these days.

Kreacher’s face fell, the long ears hanging down even lower. Harry saw that his hands were trembling. “Kreacher is inconsolable!” he croaked. “Kreacher will go and iron his hands immediately! And he will . . .”

“No, wait!” Mentally counting to ten, Harry tried to calm himself down. A shocked Muggle, Draco soon in the throes of magical infidelity punishment – he couldn’t need a house-elf who would look for creative ways to castigate himself all day long on top of that.

“I want you to go to the kitchen and stay there. Wait for me. Have a cup of tea. Do not punish yourself, do you hear me? That is an order.”

“Yes, Master Harry,” Kreacher muttered unhappily before he disappeared.

Now for the Muggle. Harry drew his wand.

“ _Obliviate_!”

.-.-.-.-.

“Another one?” Ron asked as he reached for the teapot. “How many does that make now?”

“Seven.” Harry looked down at the strawberry cake with cream dejectedly. It was his favourite, which was why Hermione had made it, but he didn’t feel at all hungry.

“If they were wizards at least, it wouldn’t be so bad. But he keeps bringing home Muggles. To Grimmauld Place! It’s so stupid! He could just dump them at the Ministry or in Diagon Alley as well, for what it’s worth. The house breathes magic.”

After it had happened for the second time, Harry had realised he’d have to do something. He had banned all magical paintings, all magical objects, in fact, from the ground floor (with the exception of his study and the library) as well as the upstairs corridor with the bedrooms, and he’d ordered Kreacher to check for Muggles every morning. Still, it hadn’t been enough.

“At least he made no scene. Only asked me again who I was, and when I told him he said again how awkward this was and yes, he’d like me to call him a taxi. Draco kept sleeping, luckily. Woke up right after the door closed behind him.”

Which had led to the next highlight of the day. Draco had begun throwing up only moments after opening his eyes, and when the worst was over, Harry had been faced with the task of bringing his naked, shaking husband who couldn’t take even one step on his own upstairs and to bed. Once there, Draco had buried his face in his pillow, sobbing with pain, wailing for Harry – or anybody at all – to make it go away.

Harry knew perfectly well how horrible he felt. He’d had sex with a witch about a year ago, when his own hand simply hadn’t seemed to be enough anymore and he’d been growing increasingly frustrated with Draco’s insults and hostility. The sex had been glorious, but it hadn’t been worth it. Nothing could be worth this kind of pain. It really was the perfect way to ensure fidelity and blood purity.

“I’ve got no clue why he keeps doing it. But I suppose he gets so shit-faced most nights it happens that he simply forgets. Makes the whole drinking business even dumber.” 

Knowing that admonishments were worthless at the moment, Harry had put the covers over Draco and left. Painkillers wouldn’t help; nothing would help for the next five days. All that could be done was to make sure that Draco drank regularly and somehow made it to the loo on time. In the past, Harry had mostly left that task to Kreacher, but now he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” he told Ron and Hermione after he had eaten his slice of cake after all. “He keeps forgetting all kinds of things, he’s burnt food several times, there’s dust all over the library and the upstairs rooms and . . . well, he just isn’t himself. It’s been going on for months, but I didn’t truly notice at first because it was only little things. But now . . . Do you think he is sick? Are there Healers for house-elves? He keeps insisting he’s fine, but I think he’s hiding something.”

“He sounds like Tiddy,” Ron said thoughtfully. “Grandma Cedrella brought her with her from the Black family when she married Grandpa Septimus. They removed her from the family tree and refused her her dowry because she married a Weasley, but they couldn’t take Tiddy from her because she was her personal house-elf. Tiddy was old, almost 500, and she died only a year before Grandma. I was eight, but I remember she was just like that, like you described Kreacher.”

“500?” Harry was dumbfounded. “I had no idea they could get that old!”

Hermione nodded. “House-elves can live to be 550, though most of them die somewhere between 450 and 500. Kreacher, if I remember correctly, should be around 520. I think it’s old age, nothing more.”

“What do I do now? He obviously doesn’t want me to know, but I don’t want him to feel overwhelmed with the work.”

“Seriously, Harry?” Hermione sounded amused as she answered. “Twelve years of living with a house-elf and you suddenly can’t clean up after yourself anymore? Perform some cleaning spells, how about that? Dusting, mopping the floor, laundry – they’re all things that can be done with magic in no time. You don’t have to talk about it with him, that would only make him feel humiliated. Let him take care of the kitchen and don’t allow any discussion. If he’s really that forgetful by now, he might not even notice and think he just did it already.”

Harry grinned sheepishly, but then an idea came to him that made him shudder. “When Black house-elves get old . . . you think he’ll still want . . .”

Ron’s eyes grew wide. “Would you do it?”

“What are you talking about?” Hermione asked.

“Remember the heads?” Harry answered.

“Harry!” Her teacup clattered on the saucer as she put it down rather forcefully. “Promise you wouldn’t.”

“Of course not!” The mere thought of Kreacher’s stuffed head hanging from the wall on a plate for him to look at every day made him feel sick. “I had all the heads put up in the attic with Mrs Black’s portrait and some other stuff, and I’m not adding to them.”

“Good,” Hermione said. “It’s barbaric.”

Harry had the decided feeling that Kreacher would argue she didn’t know what she was talking about, but he didn’t want to think about it any longer.

“I’ve got to go home. I don’t think Kreacher should be looking after Draco on his own. Maybe I can get some days off work; I worked loads of overtime this year.”

“Have fun with that,” Ron said and ducked as Harry whacked him over the head.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The next weeks went by quietly, much to Harry’s relief. There were no more arrests or public scenes from Draco, and no sex with strangers, be they wizard or Muggle. In fact, he didn’t seem to be going out at all. When Harry came home in the evening, he often found him in the library again, or on the green couch in the living room with a switched-on telly.

He was mostly quiet and gloomy-looking; often he was sleeping and a glass of Firewhiskey was standing close by, but still, this was better than how it had been before. Harry hoped it might last for a while.

December came, London disappeared under a blanket of crisp snow, and while they were watching TV on the Sunday before Christmas, after they’d visited Narcissa together for the first time in months, Harry asked if Draco wanted to come to the Burrow for Christmas Dinner. Narcissa had got even worse – now she was coughing up blood, and the Healers said it was a matter of months, maybe weeks.

Draco had been silent for the rest of the visit with Teddy and Andromeda and also for the rest of the evening, picking at the supper he’d taken together with Harry and watching the thriller Harry had switched on without complaint.

“I’d spend the day in a cupboard with Kreacher rather than set foot in that pig-sty full of Weasels,” he now snapped.

He got up and left the room, and shortly afterwards Harry heard the front door slam shut behind him. Draco didn’t return before he went to bed, and in the morning, Harry stepped into the corridor to see a stranger in billowing robes storming out of Draco’s room and towards the stairs.

“I don’t get it,” he told Ginny when they were sitting in the kitchen of the Burrow after Christmas Dinner over a bottle of butterbeer for him and a glass of wine for her. Arthur had got everyone else to set up the large electric train set Percy and Luna had got him. “It’s as if he _wants_ to hurt himself.”

“Maybe he does.” She held her glass up against a candle, swirling the dark red wine thoughtfully. “Or maybe he wants distraction, no matter what kind. Drinking, sex, pain . . . His mother is dying. And did you consider that he might be lovesick?”

“You mean . . .”

“Why not? Maybe he’s met someone, and now they can’t be together. You’d feel miserable too, I’d wager.”

“True. But he knew what he was getting himself into. He chose my Gringotts vault over his freedom.”

“He chose your vault over starvation,” Ginny said with a frown, “and you can’t tell me you wouldn’t at least have considered the same.”

“Maybe,” Harry conceded.

“Anyway, I think it’s possible. After you two got married, I went out a lot, had a lot of sex to distract myself. I wasn’t over you, not really. Not until a few months before I started going out with Neville.”

Harry smiled at the thought. Neville was in the living room as well, probably trying to set up the small generator with Mr Weasley. He and Ginny were a lovely couple, and Harry was glad for them – and not just a little envious.

“I wish he’d stop,” he said. “Kreacher’s not really up to taking care of him anymore, I noticed that the last two times, and I can’t take time off work every time he slips. Plus, it makes _him_ unhappy, whether he wants the distraction or not. He doesn’t do any of this because he likes it, that much is obvious. He’d rather bite off his tongue than tell me that, but he’s a picture of misery. It’s hard not to notice when you live with him. And his mother isn’t blind, she noticed it too. She asked me what’s wrong with him. And he feels guilty for making her worry.”

How had it come to this? Him sitting and discussing Draco Malfoy’s psyche on Christmas Day?

“Maybe if you two got along better –” Ginny began, but Harry cut her off.

“I try! I even invited him here, and not only this year. Your parents allowed it. He’s the one who keeps being difficult! He doesn’t want anything to do with me, and he refuses to talk about it.” With a large gulp, Harry emptied his bottle. “What more do you expect me to do? I’m being civil, I protect his mother from his stupidity, and now I even take care of him after he has sex. And it’s not as if I had to! I could just leave him to deal with all of it by himself.”

“Then why don’t you?”

There were whoops and cheers from the living room, Mr Weasley’s voice shouting, “It’s running!” and George saying, “Told you the cable had to go there, Dad.” Everyone was laughing and sounding happy, and Harry felt a rush of fierce gratitude that he was here, that he belonged to these people, to this family. And, as he realised, that was probably the answer.

“He doesn’t really have anyone else. You said it yourself, his mother is dying, and Andromeda . . . I think he doesn’t want to burden her. She’s already taking care of her sister when he believes he should be able to do it alone.” Andromeda had told him that Draco had rejected her invitation as well and would only stop by shortly on Boxing Day to visit Narcissa with Harry. “I know it’s silly and I don’t even like him, but he is my husband, even if it doesn’t really mean anything.”

Ginny smiled. “I suspected as much. He’s a fool for not realising what a kind man he’s married to. Just promise me you won’t get sucked in too much. If he doesn’t want your help, there’s nothing you can really do.” 

Ginny was right, Harry told himself the next evening, when Draco vanished once again after they had visited his mother, probably to some club as he usually did. He couldn’t get too involved; it would only tear him down as well. Still, he was relieved when Draco returned alone only a few hours later, and he was relieved as well when the following weeks passed quietly.

He believed it might be because of Narcissa – the bad news could come any day, and Draco probably didn’t want to be caught incapacitated. He now visited with her almost every day and appeared to have cut down on the Firewhiskey too, from what Harry could tell. 

He hadn’t tried talking to him again, but he made it a point to be in the kitchen as well when Draco ate, and while during the previous two years, Draco more often than not had left with his plate when Harry had entered the room, he now stayed. A few times, they ended up watching TV together again.

The back and forth between outright hostility and a wary, silent truce was unnerving, but there were things Harry was more preoccupied with. Kreacher seemed to be slipping more and more, however much he was trying to hide it, and one evening when he came home, Harry found supper burnt on the cold cooker while deep, croaking sobs were emerging from Kreacher’s cupboard.

With a sigh, Harry approached and knelt down before the cupboard. He had hoped he wouldn’t have to have this conversation, but had known it would probably come at some point. When he opened the door, he found Kreacher sitting in a corner of the small space with his face buried in his hands, long nose sticking out between them.

“Kreacher . . .”

The sobs got louder, and Kreacher turned away from him, trying in vain to scoot even deeper into the cupboard.

“Kreacher, please.” Harry had no idea what to do or say. “Please, don’t be so upset. It’s not the end of the world.”

Obviously, that had been the wrong thing to say. “K-kreacher is old!” the house-elf wailed. “Kreacher is useless! Burning food, forgetting things that are important to Master Harry. And Master Harry is _cleaning_!”

Damn, so he had noticed.

“We all get old,” he tried. “It’s normal, really. And I don’t mind the cleaning; it’s only a few spells.”

Kreacher shook his head, still not turning around to face him. “If this were the old days, Kreacher would be put out of his misery. House-elves shouldn’t be left alive when they’re too old to be useful! Kreacher is so ashamed!”

Harry had expected this, but still, he didn’t quite know how to answer. “I can’t possibly kill you!”

By now, the sobs had stopped, and Kreacher was only sniffling weakly. “All the Black house-elves were beheaded in old age. It’s an honourable passing, Master Harry. Kreacher’s ancestors would be appalled if they knew of his indignity.”

“I can’t kill you. I can’t kill anyone. That’s my last word.” It was more than enough that he’d killed Voldemort, and he never wanted to even contemplate doing anything like it again.

Kreacher nodded. “Kreacher knows,” he said dully. “It’s why he didn’t want to tell Master Harry. Master Harry didn’t grow up to honour the old traditions. He can’t understand.” He sobbed again, quietly this time. 

Harry felt like a heartless monster. 

“Look, I really can’t kill you. It’s wrong. You’re, well, a friend. But what if I . . . when you’re dead, if I put your head up into the attic with the other heads? With the portrait of Mrs Black?” He couldn’t believe he was even considering this, but Kreacher seemed so utterly miserable that it felt cruel to deny him this as well. He’d never have to look at the head or even tell anybody. Certainly not Hermione.

Kreacher turned around slowly, lowering his hands from his face. His bulging eyes were still swimming with tears, and there was something wet hanging under his nose Harry didn’t want to think about.

“Master Harry would do that for Kreacher?” He sounded so incredulous and hopeful that Harry couldn’t help but reach out and put his hand on one skinny shoulder.

“Yes. You’re a friend and you’ve always been a good house-elf. I’d be a bad master if I refused. I’m sorry I can’t do more than that.” To his own surprise, he realised that he meant every word as he said it.

Kreacher’s wrinkled face worked hard for a while, and Harry suspected he was trying not to burst out crying again. “Master Harry has a kind heart,” he finally croaked. “Kreacher will endure the shame of Master Harry cleaning without complaint if he promises to stuff Kreacher’s head and put it with those of his ancestors.”

“I promise,” Harry said, squeezing Kreacher’s shoulder slightly. “Just don’t tell anybody, all right? Hermione would have _my_ head if she knew.”

To Harry’s relief, Kreacher nodded, and he pulled his hand away. “Then we’ll make a deal: I clean the rest of the house and do the laundry, and you’re responsible for the kitchen. I could never cook as well as you, and if you don’t have to worry about other things, I’m sure you won’t burn the food.”

Again, Kreacher nodded, and Harry got up. “Great. Then how about another try at supper?”

“Right away, Master Harry!” Kreacher said as he crawled out of his cupboard. “Right away!”

.-.-.-.-.-.

Narcissa died on a cold Thursday night during the last week of February.

Harry came home from work to find Draco sitting in the kitchen, watching as Kreacher prepared supper. When he entered the room, Draco turned to look at him. 

“It’s time,” he said flatly, and Harry immediately knew what he was talking about. “They say she won’t survive the night. I just came to get you. She wants to see you.”

“All right.” Harry didn’t want to do it, but he felt that he owed it to Narcissa – and somehow, even to Draco. And he knew he would hate himself if he didn’t go. 

They Flooed over to Andromeda’s house, where they were greeted by the two Healers who had treated Narcissa over the last few years. Andromeda was upstairs, and when Harry made for Narcissa’s room, he found her coming out of it.

“I had Molly get Teddy,” she told Harry after they had greeted with a hug. “He shouldn’t be here tonight.”

Harry nodded. “Can I go in?”

“Yes, she keeps asking for you. I was just about to go and Firecall you, ask you to please come quickly. I’m not sure . . .” She drew a shaky breath. “It won’t be more than a few hours.”

“I’m so sorry.” It wasn’t right – her husband and daughter had died, and now she was losing her second sister.

“Well, we all knew it was coming. And at least we could reconcile; I’d never even hoped for that. Now go in, don’t keep her waiting. I’ll go downstairs to Draco.”

When she had descended the stairs, Harry waited for another minute, trying to mentally prepare himself. He had last seen Narcissa a month ago, and even then she had been incredibly weak and barely able to talk.

Finally, he took heart and opened the door. The room was as tidy as ever and lit by gently flickering candlelight, but the air was thick, and even from the door, he could hear Narcissa’s laboured breathing. Her eyes were closed, and she didn’t appear to notice him when he approached and even when he sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. 

While she had been fragile when he had met her after the wedding, now she was emaciated, paper-thin skin stretching tightly over her skull. Her hair had thinned even more and lost all colour, and her mouth was standing open, pale gums having receded from her teeth. When Harry took her hand into his, he was almost afraid he might break bones.

“Narcissa?” he said softly. “It’s Harry. I’m here now.”

There was no answer, and none either when he repeated her name. She seemed to be asleep, and he wondered if he shouldn’t let her be. But it had been so important to her to see him, and this would be the last chance.

“Narcissa?” With his free hand, Harry cupped her cheek. She whimpered, slightly turning her head into his touch, and he felt a thick lump in his throat as he remembered how strong and proud she had been when he’d seen her for the first time at the Quidditch World Cup. “It’s Harry.”

After a few moments, her eyes fluttered open – they were glassy and unfocused, and Harry had to lean forward to hear her when she spoke. 

“Harry?”

“Yes, it’s me. Draco said you wanted to see me.” 

“I . . . I wanted to . . . apologise.”

He had no idea what she was talking about. “There’s nothing to apologise for.”

She wanted to answer, but instead she coughed, her thin body shaking under the covers. Harry quickly grabbed a paper tissue from the box on the bedside table and held it before her mouth and when she could finally stop and he took the tissue away, it was stained with fresh blood.

For a minute or two, all she could do was draw shallow, wheezing breaths with closed eyes, and Harry wondered how often Draco had simply sat here with her during the last years, watching her and listening to her life tick away breath for breath. Was it really such a surprise that he’d thrown himself into distractions, however destructive they were? Harry couldn’t imagine seeing his own mother like this.

At last, she opened her eyes again.

“Th-thirsty . . .”

There was a feeding cup with water on the bedside table, and Harry let go of her hand and took it instead. He carefully slipped his free hand behind her head and lifted it a little before he put the spout to her mouth.

“Here.”

She drank a few sips, and when he’d put the cup away and lowered her head on the pillow, she reached out for him. Harry quickly took hold of her hand again.

“I know . . . Draco forced you into marriage,” she whispered. “It couldn’t have been . . . any other way. I knew it the moment . . . he told me that . . . you said yes. But . . . it’s so . . . so important to . . . him that I believe . . . he wouldn’t do such a thing. You mustn’t . . . mustn’t tell him, Harry.”

“Narcissa . . .”

“Promise . . . me!” She sounded agitated and even tried to lift her head, and Harry nodded hastily. 

“I promise. Please, don’t get upset. I won’t tell him.”

“Thank . . . you.” Much to Harry’s relief, she relaxed again, and her eyes closed. “Will you promise me . . . something else?”

“Whatever you want; if I can do it, I will.” Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t have said anything else.

“Take care . . . of Draco. I know he’s . . . difficult and not . . . kind to you. You two never . . . fooled me.”

Harry hesitated. He didn’t know if he could do it, and he didn’t want to. It couldn’t go on the way it had been before Christmas. He couldn’t shoulder that kind of burden.

“Please,” Narcissa urged him. She opened her eyes, again, looking at him intently. Her hand in his was shaking, her voice barely audible, and Harry got the impression that it took all of her strength to speak. “He’s got . . . nobody else. Andromeda . . . has lost so much already . . . and she’s got Teddy to take care of. I know . . . I know it’s wrong of me to ask . . . but I need to know that . . . he’ll have somebody. Please, Harry.”

“I promise.” He couldn’t refuse. Already, he inwardly cursed himself, but there was no way he could say no to her. “You needn’t worry about him. I’ll be there.”

Again, whatever she wanted to reply was cut off by a violent coughing fit, and when it was over, she appeared to fall asleep. She didn’t speak anymore and her eyes stayed closed. Harry thought it would be best to leave, but when he wanted to let go of her hand and get up, she squeezed weakly, and he leant down again to be able to understand what she said.

“I miss . . . Lucius. Now when I go . . . to him, I won’t be . . . scared. I’ll tell him . . . how much you’ve done for . . . for our family. We didn’t . . . deserve any of it. You have . . . a kind heart.”

Harry wanted to be far away from here, or to tell her that he couldn’t keep this promise. A kind heart – Kreacher and Ginny had said the same, but it seemed that all it did was manoeuvre him into responsibilities he didn’t want.

“You needn’t be scared,” he repeated instead. “I promise I’ll take care of Draco. Now should I get him for you?”

She nodded and didn’t resist this time when he let go. Harry got up, but couldn’t make himself leave. Instead he looked down at her in the soft candlelight that smoothed at least the harshest lines from her ravaged face. She had saved his life once, and after the war he’d come to respect her for the strong woman she was. They had almost become friends over the years, and he couldn’t quite believe that this should be the last time he saw her. 

Following a sudden impulse, he leant down one last time and kissed her clammy forehead. “Goodbye, Narcissa.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but straightened himself and almost fled from the room. As he closed the door behind him, he found that he was fighting tears, and he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. It didn’t help much, but he managed to calm down enough so he could go and get Draco quickly. Narcissa shouldn’t be alone for any amount of time.

Downstairs, he found the Healers gone and Draco and Andromeda in the dimly lit living room, both with an untouched cup of tea before them.

“Draco? You should go to her.”

Immediately, Draco got up and brushed past him without a glance. Harry took his spot on the couch next to Andromeda. They didn’t speak, since there was nothing to say, but when he took her hand, she held on tightly for a long time.

It was shortly past four in the morning when Draco returned to the living room. He didn’t say anything, but there was no need. He moved slowly, as if in trance, and Harry could have sworn that it wasn’t only the lack of light that made his face look almost as shadowed and tired as Narcissa’s had been.

Andromeda had been sitting with her teacup clutched tightly on her lap, and now she rose without paying attention to it, making it fall and break on the wooden floor. She rushed to Draco, and Harry was expecting for them to hug, to touch, anything – but Draco backed away. It was only a tiny flinch, but enough for Andromeda to stop in her tracks. For seconds, they looked at each other mutely, then Andromeda turned away from him and left; Harry could hear her climb the stairs while Draco stood like frozen.

Upstairs, a door opened and closed, and Draco started moving again, slowly shuffling to the couch and sitting down on it heavily next to Harry. He leant forward and supported his head with his hands as usual. Watching him, Harry was unsure of what to do, if anything. He didn’t want to provoke any outburst, but he felt that he couldn’t simply do nothing.

“Draco?” he tried in the end. “I’m sorry. She didn’t . . . it’s not right.”

Draco didn’t react in any fashion, and Harry already thought he’d ignore him. It was better than snapping at him, at least.

“The worst thing is that I wanted for her to die.” Draco’s voice was monotonous, lifeless – as if something inside him had been switched off. Harry said nothing.

“At first, I wanted for her to get better, of course. When she could still walk, and even when she was bedbound, in the beginning. But the last half year . . .” Draco ran all ten fingers through his hair, then assumed the same position as before. “I couldn’t take it anymore, to see her like this. I wanted her to die, so that she’d stop hurting. So that _I_ would stop hurting because of her. What kind of son wishes his own mother would die?”

Carefully, Harry scooted closer to him. His mind was blank – it wasn’t that he hadn’t wondered a few times if it wouldn’t be better if the end came quickly, that he hadn’t wished for it once or twice, but it wasn’t the same as for Draco. It couldn’t be.

“Only at the same time, I wanted her to stay,” Draco went on, still in this flat, toneless voice. “I didn’t want her to leave me like Father. Like everyone. But that was selfish of me; she was suffering so much. It made me feel just as rotten as hoping it would be over quickly.”

Harry reached out hesitantly, thinking that this was more likely than not a huge mistake. But Draco didn’t even react to the hand on his back.

“Now I feel glad that she’s at peace, and mad with her for leaving, and guilty for all of it. Life’s a pile of shit.”

No words would come to Harry, and so they sat in silence, Harry’s hand still on Draco’s back. Tomorrow, there would be a funeral to plan, and Harry wondered if Draco would be up to the task. Andromeda would probably help him, and if he let him, Harry would as well. Who would come other than them and Teddy? Was there anyone left? Old friends from before the war maybe? Draco appeared to have lost all contact, and neither Narcissa nor Andromeda had ever mentioned anyone.

“Potter?”

“Hmh?” Harry snapped out of his thoughts to find Draco looking at him as if he’d only now realised that he wasn’t alone.

“Did she know?”

“Know what?” Harry believed that he knew perfectly well what Draco was asking, but luckily he had the presence of mind not to give himself away.

“That I forced you into this marriage. Did she ever say anything?”

“No,” Harry heard himself say. He sounded sincere and it was far easier than he’d have imagined. It was the only possible answer. “She didn’t suspect anything. She never even asked. And when I was with her earlier she only thanked me again. Asked me to sit with her for a bit. Nothing more.”

Draco nodded, and then, to Harry’s utter surprise, very slowly, he leant against Harry, into the embrace he’d half-offered when he had touched him. It was so surreal that Harry barely dared to breathe, but then he got a grip on himself and carefully wrapped his other arm around Draco as well, pulling him in closer. Draco didn’t resist; he was rigid in Harry’s hold, his fists clenched and pressed against his own chest, but bit by bit, as the minutes went by, he relaxed. In the end, his arms sneaked around Harry’s waist and he turned his face so it was hidden in Harry’s robes.

Andromeda found them like that an hour later; Draco was sleeping by then, lying against Harry heavily. At some point, he’d drawn up his feet on the couch, and Harry had summoned a blanket and wrapped it around him.

Harry could see that Andromeda had cried, but she looked composed now. “Will he let you take care of him?” she asked. “I tried, but we’re not close. The only thing connecting us was Cissa.”

Harry shrugged very slightly. “I’m not sure. It seems so, for now.” He hoped it would last for a while at least. It would make keeping his promise to Narcissa easier.

“He’s lucky to have you. Cissa thought the same.”

If only she wouldn’t say anything about him being kind-hearted, Harry thought, but fortunately, she did nothing of the sort.

“I’m going to make us a fresh pot of tea, and then we should talk about the funeral.”

“All right.”

.-.-.-.-.

Narcissa was buried four days later, in the Black family crypt on an old, hidden Wizarding graveyard in the heart of London. Since the Malfoy family crypt was situated on the grounds of the Manor, she, and before her Lucius, couldn’t be buried there, and at Draco’s request, Harry as the Head of the House of Black had given official permission to the Malfoys to use the crypt of the Blacks. Lucius, who had been buried on a shabby Muggle graveyard, would be transferred later this week.

It had been Andromeda and Harry who’d organised everything; Draco seemed incapable of doing much at all. He spent the days – and nights – between his mother’s death and funeral on the green couch in the living room of Grimmauld Place, sometimes watching TV, but mostly lying down, staring at nothing. While there was always a glass of Firewhiskey close by, he only sipped from it occasionally, unlike the previous years. A few times when Harry sat down with him, he curled up against him without a word, and most of these times, he fell asleep eventually.

He barely spoke and he never cried, from what Harry could tell: he simply seemed numb and almost like a sleep-walker. His behaviour worried Harry, but he didn’t know what to do about it and hoped that with time, he would go back to normal – though he couldn’t help but think that he still liked him better like this than the Draco who’d done nothing but cause trouble for them both.

As Harry had suspected, nobody attended the funeral but himself, Draco, Andromeda, and Teddy. It was a depressing affair; the weather was gloomy and wet, a constant drizzle combined with fog clouding the sight, and the ancient tombs and crypts on the graveyard, together with the weathered, moss-covered trees towering over them, created an eerie atmosphere.

Before the coffin was brought into the crypt, the speaker Andromeda had hired for the occasion talked about Narcissa’s life and the people she had loved, as well as her magical accomplishments and her and her husband’s blood-line – an old tradition Draco had insisted on.

Teddy was sobbing weakly and holding Andromeda’s hand despite disliking such displays at the age of almost thirteen. He’d come to love his great-aunt dearly, and in the morning, Harry had accidentally witnessed him yelling at Andromeda for sending him away during the night she had died. Andromeda herself did her best to appear composed, as she had over the last few days. Her black robes were free of any crinkles and she was standing very straight under her black umbrella, but her face had lost all colour, and when Harry looked closer, he saw tears running down her cheeks as well.

In contrast, Draco seemed as emotionless as he had since his mother had died. He looked straight ahead, dry-eyed and silent, and Harry wondered what Andromeda might think of him. He was standing right next to Draco, arm wrapped tightly around his waist to prevent him from falling – when they’d wanted to leave the house, Draco’s legs had simply given in.

When it was finally over, they went home separately. Harry had asked if Andromeda wanted him there, but she’d told him to take care of Draco. Molly Weasley would come over – they’d become friends over the years.

At home, Draco went straight for the liquor cabinet in the living room.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Harry asked, but Draco ignored him, and although he felt as if he might soon have to tackle the drinking issue – it had been more than obvious that Draco was an alcoholic for quite a while – Harry didn’t feel like starting a fight. The one thing he would do was make sure Draco didn’t run off to find somebody to have sex with. Not tonight. 

For now, though, it seemed safe to leave him on the couch with the bottle of Ogden’s, and Harry made for the kitchen to get some sandwiches for supper. Draco hadn’t yet eaten anything that day.

Harry walked into the kitchen – and screamed. 

When he could think again, he found that he was standing with his hand clapped over his mouth, heart beating wildly in his throat as he looked down on Kreacher, who was lying in front of the cooker with his eyes wide open and not breathing.

Not this, too.

But there was no denying it, Harry had to realise when he knelt down next to Kreacher: the house-elf was dead. There was an unsettling feeling deep in his stomach when he realised what he’d have to do next.

It was only five-thirty, and the shops were still open. If he wanted to, he could take Kreacher’s body to Knockturn Alley right away. At the beginning of February, he’d reluctantly gathered information about where you could get your house-elves’ heads stuffed and had found out – relieved and appalled in equal parts – that there was a nameless shop belonging to a wizard named Kilgore he could turn to. 

The mere thought of what would happen there and what he’d have to take home in a few days made his stomach lurch, and he had to close his eyes and fight down the nausea. He couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t. 

Only he’d promised.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

When Harry came back, Draco was still on the couch, clutching the bottle of Firewhiskey. The telly wasn’t switched on, but he appeared to be looking at it intently, not moving when Harry entered the room, nor when he sat down next to him.

“Kreacher’s dead,” Harry said. “Found him in the kitchen.” And because he had to share it with somebody: “Don’t tell anyone, but I brought him to Kilgore’s to take care of his head. I promised it to him.”

A hand appeared in his field of vision, holding the bottle out to him. Harry grabbed it and downed a big gulp. The Firewhiskey burnt down his throat pleasantly and within moments, his upset stomach settled. Encouraged, he took another gulp.

He’d wrapped Kreacher into a blanket he’d summoned and Flooed to the shop’s address through the fireplace in his study. Mr Kilgore, a man who looked like a friendly grandfather with spectacles and tufts of white hair sticking out around his bald head, had listened and nodded, sworn secrecy, and named a price. In a week, Harry could come to collect Kreacher’s head. 

The question of what to do with the body had arisen, and Kilgore had asked if Harry wanted him to ‘dispose of it’. Admonishing himself to stay calm, Harry had ground out that he’d take it home to bury, which he would do close to the garden wall under a rosebush. Kreacher might not have liked it, but Harry felt that he’d done his duty there.

“Potter.”

“What?”

“The bottle.”

Harry handed it back and heard Draco drink. He wondered if he should go to bed now – he’d locked all doors and fireplaces after he’d come back from Knockturn Alley and warded them with spells more complicated than Draco could undo with the household magic he had left. There was no way he could get out without Harry’s help. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, and he’d have felt guilty to leave Draco alone tonight.

“He was a good house-elf, you know. Once he stopped acting crazy.” The bottle appeared again, and Harry took it and drank without thinking before handing it back. “And he remembered stuff. My and all my friends’ birthdays. And yours. He made us birthday cakes every year, and one for Ron and Hermione’s anniversary too. Before he started getting forgetful.”

“Mhm,” Draco grunted into the bottle.

“I can’t believe I’m letting that old man cut his head off. But he was almost begging, I couldn’t say no.”

“Shut up, Potter.” Despite the words, Draco’s voice was soft, and Harry only sighed and accepted the bottle again. He’d get drunk if he swallowed as much as one more mouthful, but he didn’t particularly care. After today, he needed it.

They sat and drank until the bottle was empty, and Harry didn’t protest when Draco summoned a second one. At some point during that one, Draco switched on the telly, where he zapped through the channels until he ended up at _Comedy Central UK_ , and for a while, they watched Leslie Nielsen embarrassing himself playing a ridiculous vampire count.

It was just when the gormless servant began eating flies at the asylum that Harry realised he was crying. He leant his head against the backrest of the couch and closed his eyes. The world was spinning around him thanks to the Firewhiskey, but the closed eyes didn’t help. Now he was seeing Kreacher prepare breakfast, saying, _’Master Harry knows this is how it goes after too much to drink,’_ in his deep, croaking voice; then the scene switched to him leading the army of house-elves at the Battle of Hogwarts. _‘Fight! Fight for my master, the defender of the house-elves! Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus! Fight!’_

Harry had lived with him for twelve years, and while he’d been dotty and unpleasant to look at for human eyes, it was true what Harry had told him shortly after Christmas: he had become a friend.

You didn’t have a friend’s head chopped off and stuffed like an animal’s. You didn’t.

It was just when he began sobbing that Draco leant against his chest like he’d done during the previous days. Harry wrapped his arms around him and cried into his hair, holding on tightly more for his own than for Draco’s sake while Draco stayed silent. He was warm and his hair was soft, and his arms around Harry’s waist were strong and comforting.

“You know,” Harry finally muttered in a slightly slurred voice, when the tears had stopped and he’d spelled the snot out of Draco’s hair, “you’re not all that bad, for a git. We should just get along. We are married.”

Draco lifted himself to look at Harry. His eyes were dark and his drawn face glowing with a faint pink flush. 

“You are such an idiot.” The way he said it sounded like a strange mixture of fondness and hurt; then he learnt in and his lips were on Harry’s. 

Harry was too dumbstruck to react at all and simply held still, trying to figure out what was happening though the alcoholic haze. He was being kissed and a soft tongue was probing gently. Harry whimpered low in his throat. It had been so long. He opened his mouth.

It was intoxicating, and while somewhere back in his mind a tiny voice told him that he wasn’t attracted to men, he couldn’t care even one bit. Not with these lips and tongue and teeth, licking and nibbling and sucking and caressing. Not when gentle hands were mussing his hair and a warm, heavy weight settled on his lap, pressing against his hard cock.

“Oh God,” Harry moaned. Every brushing of tongues seemed to wander down there directly, and then the kisses wandered over his cheek to his neck, making him first shiver and then moan again when they turned into tantalising little bites.

The kissing stopped and there were hands fumbling with his robes’ buttons, and Harry found that his own hands were busy doing the same thing with Draco’s. They were both uncoordinated and it took far too long, so when the robes finally came off, all Harry wanted to do was touch. Draco’s narrow chest was smooth and almost hairless, and it didn’t matter that there were no breasts – it felt weird only for a few moments. Then Harry couldn’t withstand anymore and bent down to kiss while supporting Draco with both arms, preventing him from falling backwards. There was a gasp when Harry’s lips closed around a small, pink nipple, and soon, Draco was panting harshly as Harry kept teasing with his teeth and tongue. 

Eventually, Draco leant forward again, pushing Harry back against the couch and kissing him greedily.

“Let me,” he whispered breathlessly when they broke the kiss. “Let me . . .” He didn’t go on, but slid down from Harry onto the floor, and before Harry could protest, Draco had pulled down his boxers.

‘Wait,’ he wanted to say, the last rational bit of his mind making a feeble attempt at being heard. But the only thing he got out was a deep groan as Draco’s hot mouth closed around his cock and all thought left him. This was heaven.

From there on, things were fuzzy in Harry’s mind. The blow-job was incredible, but it ended too soon without him having come, and then, somehow, Draco was on his back on the couch and Harry above him. There were mutters of “please fuck me” and “waited too long”, hungry kisses and cocks grinding together. From somewhere, a jar with a sticky substance floated towards them. 

Harry had no idea how he ended up with his cock inside Draco’s arse, but it was hot and tight and _perfect_ , and he fleetingly thought that he hadn’t known what he was missing out on, before once again all thinking stopped. There were only heated kisses, clinging, scratching fingers, smooth skin and deep thrusts, and finally, finally, a climax that made Harry slump down on Draco in blissful exhaustion. He was tired and sated and still far too drunk, Draco was the perfect pillow, and he almost would have gone to sleep. 

Then he heard it. 

Confused, he struggled to open his eyes and catch a clear thought. 

Draco was crying. 

Why? Was something wrong? This had been lovely.

Harry tried to lift himself, but was pulled back down abruptly – Draco was clinging to him with all his strength. It was awkward; by now Harry could feel sticky come between them, and his position was beginning to get uncomfortable. He slowly slid down from Draco, next to him on the couch, being careful to stay as close to him as possible. When they were lying side by side and Harry wrapped his arms around him, Draco all but crawled into him, fingernails digging deep into Harry’s back.

“Don’t . . . go!” His face was pressed against Harry’s chest, voice muffled and barely understandable between sobs. “Don’t go! Now I’ve got only you.”

Oh.

Draco tried to press even closer, and Harry, in turn, tightened his hold. Somehow, one of his hands found its way into Draco’s hair.

“Shhh. I’m here. I’m not leaving, promise.” He had promised it to Narcissa, and right now, it didn’t seem so bad. He didn’t want to go anywhere; all that he wanted, he thought dazedly, was to somehow make things better. Make Draco stop hurting.

“I couldn’t help her,” Draco sobbed, “I couldn’t. I tried so hard . . .” And then there were only sobs left, making him jerk harshly in Harry’s embrace while Harry kept murmuring softly and stroking Draco’s hair. He wouldn’t leave, he’d take care of him, everything was going to be all right.

Eventually, after what felt like a very long time, the sobs died down to sniffling and whimpers, then silence. Draco’s desperate clinging loosened as well, enough so that Harry could summon his wand and, subsequently, a blanket which he wrapped around them. He felt exhausted and dizzy and didn’t care anymore about them being a mess of come, tears, and sweat. By now, Draco was limp and warm against him, and Harry barely managed to stay awake.

“Harry . . .” Draco whispered hoarsely.

“I’m here. Now hush, we’re going to sleep.”

There was no protest; Draco only wriggled a bit, snuggling comfortably into Harry’s arms. It was nice, Harry thought. He’d missed this. And then he was asleep.

.-.-.-.-.

Harry wanted to die.

It was his first clear thought through the horrible headache, and he groaned when he realised what had happened.

He’d got drunk. Why? He never got drunk anymore, hadn’t in years. It was never worth it.

Slowly gaining more of his senses, he noticed that he was not in his bed: there were no smooth sheets beneath him, but something soft and plushy. And he was naked, with somebody just as naked cuddled up to him. For a few moments, that fact didn’t fully register with him. It was warm and felt almost cosy, despite the pain he was in. 

Then there was an abrupt movement, the body next to him vanished, and a sharp voice like a knife cut into his brain.

“What the fuck happened?”

Harry blinked and groaned again as light flooded his stinging eyes. Right before him, he could make out something blurry and human-shaped, and when he blinked and focused – his glasses were still sitting on his nose – it turned into Draco, who was glaring down at him, apparently uncaring of his lack of clothing.

“Draco, what . . .”

“I said, what happened?” Draco snapped. “How come I’m waking up naked with _you_ , Potter?”

Slowly, Harry struggled into a sitting position, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples to lessen the pain at least a little. “I think . . . we had sex.” Bit by bit, it was coming back to him. “We came home from the funeral and there was Kreacher . . . he was dead. I brought him to . . . well, away. We drank together. A lot. You kissed me. And then . . . then it happened.”

His explanation was met with silence, and he raised his head after a while. Draco was paler than ever and looking at him with such burning hatred that for a second, Harry feared he’d attack him. But Draco stood still, fists clenched, lean body trembling barely noticeably.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” he finally hissed through gritted teeth. “Got that? Don’t ever!”

“What?” This was making no sense at all. “Only last night you said –”

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear it!”

“Please, Draco.” The raised voice sent pain though his head and nausea rolling in waves over him. Harry was in no condition to fight. “Can we just stay calm and talk?”

“Talk about what? About how you exploited me being drunk after my mother’s funeral?”

“You’re always drunk. And you started it. Begged me to fuck you.” It wasn’t the smartest thing to say, but he could barely think, his head was hurting that badly. And it was the truth.

“Because I wasn’t right in the head!” Draco screamed. “I was pissed to the gills, my _mother_ had just been buried, and you thought it was a good idea to go along with that shit?” He raked his hands though his hair, which was sticking up into all directions. “I thought you didn’t even like men anyway. What kind of pervert are you?”

“I’m not!” Now it was Harry’s turn to get angry. “We were grieving, we were both drunk, we both needed comfort –”

“Comfort!” Draco spat. “Yeah, I remember. ‘I’m here. I’m going to take care of you. I promise’,” he cooed, his voice sickly sweet. “Is that what you promised her? To play the martyr? Be there for her wayward son because he’s so pathetic that he’s got nobody else? Well, I don’t want you. I don’t _need_ you!”

“Draco –” Harry hoisted himself to his feet, trying not to fall as he was hit by a dizzy spell.

“No, stay away from me! You can keep your pity!”

“It’s not pity!” Harry insisted. It wasn’t, hadn’t been last night. “We’re married, and I promised I would –”

“I married your money and your protection! I married your _name_ , not you! You’ve got no obligation beyond that, why can’t you get that into your thick head?”

Hearing that hurt. It wasn’t that Harry hadn’t thought of it like this. He had, in the beginning. It had been realistic. And when Draco had changed for no reason and everything had begun going down the drain, he’d almost resigned himself to the fact that this was how it would always be. But last night, Harry had dared to hope . . . what? That they’d be lovers? No, he realised, not that. What had happened had been facilitated by alcohol and pure need. He wasn’t attracted to Draco or men in general. But friends? Yes, he’d hoped they might be friends after all.

“I don’t want to have anything to do with you ever again!” Draco’s harsh voice tore him out of his thoughts. He had picked up his clothes and was clutching them to his chest. “Just leave me alone. Don’t talk to me, don’t try to take care of me! I can take care of myself and you’ve got better things to do anyway. And if you dare touch me again, I will find a way to hurt you, magic or no! Is that clear?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but stalked out of the room stiffly, leaving Harry to stare after him speechlessly before his legs gave way and he found himself sitting on his butt.

Shit. Somehow, within a few days, everything had gone to shit even more than it had during the previous years. Narcissa was dead, Kreacher was dead, Draco hated him worse than before. His home life would be hell, as it had been since he was a child, always. 

Naked as he was, Harry curled up right there on the carpet, but he couldn’t even cry.

.-.-.-.-.

“Please, Hermione. I don’t know who else to ask, and I can’t do it. The Russians are due this morning, in half an hour, so even if I could squeeze some more days out of Ruskin at any other time, it’s not happening now. Please.”

Hermione shook her head for the third time. “No. He’ll never learn anything if you keep trying to help. He needs to get through this alone.”

“He can’t stay alone, it’s too dangerous. Remember what he did to make the pain go away the one time I tried that? I’ll have to send him to St Mungo’s again if you say no, and you _know_ the risks. It wouldn’t be right. Please, this last time.”

“It’s not right what he keeps doing to you, Harry.” She sighed. “All right, this last time. But promise me it will truly be the last. Promise you’ll get him into rehab directly after, no matter what he does or says. Stun and bind him on Thursday, if necessary. There won’t be a free space so quickly again, I’d wager. And don’t feel bad about it. It’s necessary, and you’re doing nothing wrong. As his bond partner, you’re within your rights, you know that.”

“I know.” 

They’d gone over it a dozen times during these last weeks. During the eleven months after Narcissa’s death, Draco had brought home a one night stand eight times, and Harry had no idea if that was all. He disappeared for days, sometimes up to a week, and when he was home, it seemed that all he did anymore was drinking.

Harry had used up all of his free days for this year to take care of him – and a few more he’d managed to amass with working plenty of overtime. When he was half crazy with pain, Draco didn’t care that it was Harry, and afterwards, he never said anything. The last three times, Harry’d had to resort to asking Hermione for help, since as an independent researcher for the Ministry, she was the only one of his friends who wasn’t currently working fixed hours. She had agreed grudgingly and borne Draco’s ceaseless insults with stoic demeanour, but she’d been clear about the fact that this couldn’t go on. Draco had spiralled out of control entirely, and Harry had let himself be dragged down with him. ‘Co-dependent’ Hermione had called it. It was time to change that.

It had been her who had given Harry the brochures, and he’d latched on to the idea almost desperately. The place was called _Hecate Domicile_ and it was a private facility for the wealthier members of Wizarding society who found themselves afflicted with all kinds of addictions. It promised good medical care during the detoxication period and professional help with the aftermath for both in- and outpatients.

Immediately, Harry had looked into it and found that you could send your blood-bonded partner to a rehab centre without their consent if it was medically proven that they were suffering from an addiction. Apparently, addictive substances – and especially magical ones, of which he’d found an impressive and frightening list – could do damage to the bond and both partners’ life expectancy. 

With Draco, there would be no difficulty proving the medical necessity, and after some stern, honest talks with Hermione and Ginny, Harry had decided that this was what he would do. He’d felt dizzy with relief when they had Firecalled him two days ago and informed him of a free place next Thursday. His life was a train wreck, and he hadn’t even understood how stressed and plain burnt out he was until their owl had delivered the confirmation letter in the evening, only hours after the Firecall.

He had Firecalled Ginny and asked if he could spend the night, and like he’d done the night before his wedding, he had been able to let go with her, even more than he could have with Ron or Hermione. This time, though, there had been no kisses, only a comforting embrace and a warm blanket spread over him after he’d fallen asleep in her arms on the couch.

“Next Thursday it is,” he now promised Hermione. “I’ll do whatever I have to. Will you be there? Please?”

“I will. I would even if you hadn’t asked; I need to know he’s truly going. The things he’s put you through, all the one night stands, all the arrests these last months . . . he’d deserve St Mungo’s.”

“You don’t mean that, not really. It would be one thing if they were to let him know how much they despise him – I’d not say anything. He’d deserve that, even though it’s for different reasons. But we can never know which of the Healers or nurses –”

“I know, and you’re right,” she conceded. “Whatever he was in the past, he doesn’t deserve to be mistreated because of it while he’s helpless like this. But that is the only reason I’m doing it.” 

When all his days of leave had run out and Draco had got himself into trouble again with another man, Harry had seen no other option but to send him to St Mungo’s to recover. It had been a big mistake. On the evening of the second day, when he wanted to see how Draco was doing, he’d witnessed two of the nurses hitting him viciously. They were Muggle-born and Death Eaters had murdered their parents.

“Now go to work, Harry,” Hermione said. “I’ll get my things and Floo over to him. But this means you owe me. Big time.”

“You’re a life-saver.” Relieved, Harry hugged her before he made for the fireplace. Maybe he could squeeze in a cup of coffee before the Russian exchange Aurors would arrive.

.-.-.-.

Eight days later, on Wednesday evening, Harry was nervously pacing his study. Draco had been gone for two days, which was unusual. Normally, after five days of excruciating pain, he’d rest and stay home for several days. This time, he’d taken off the very next day, before Harry could prevent it. It didn’t fit with his plans at all. He’d hoped he would be able to surprise him in bed on Thursday morning. The rehab centre was awaiting them at 9am, and Harry had planned everything carefully to make sure Draco wouldn’t stand a chance against him and Hermione. Maybe they could even make him see reason. Harry knew that he didn’t like living like this.

Now, though, it seemed as if plans would have to change. This morning already, he’d set Hermione on locating Draco, but so far, she’d had no luck at all. Harry had only come home from work to change clothes and grab a sandwich, then he’d Floo back to the Ministry and try some locating devices they had only there. 

He had just decided to leave the half-eaten sandwich on his desk and get going when something rapped at the window. Harry wasn’t expecting any owl-post, but it was a large Eagle Owl, which was carrying a parchment and took off immediately after dropping it on Harry’s desk.

Harry was tempted to leave the parchment and only look at it the next morning – he really needed to try and find Draco. But then he grabbed and unrolled it. Five minutes wouldn’t hurt.

At first, his only thought was that this had got to be a joke, although he couldn’t imagine anybody he knew doing something like it, not even Draco. Or would he? But what would be the purpose of it?

Shaking his head in confusion, he read the letter a second time.

_Potter,_

_We’ve got your husband. If you want to get him back alive, bring 250,000 Galleons to the crossroads five miles south of Ottery St. Catchpole. There’s a large stone directly under the signpost. Under the stone, there’s a hollow big enough for the money if you shrink it. Put it in and then leave. Come alone or he dies immediately. Don’t bring your friends. Don’t go to the Aurors. We WILL know. Bring the money at 11pm sharp. If you meet our demands, he’ll be delivered to your home at 11.30. You know how to verify this letter._

And under that:

_They’re serious. Please do what they say._

_Draco_

That short note more than anything else made Harry worry and consider taking it seriously after all. It was without a doubt written in Draco’s spidery handwriting, and not in ink, but in a red colour which a part of Harry had recognised immediately upon reading the note for the first time. Together with the bit about him knowing how to verify the letter, this fact made all of this not a bad joke but a very serious matter. So serious that he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the implications at the first reading.

A Blood Quill. 

As an Auror, Harry had worked on several kidnapping cases, most of them over in New York, and in two of them, the kidnappers had made the victim use a Blood Quill to prove that they were serious and indeed were holding the person in question captive.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he drew his wand, pointed it at the parchment, and spoke the necessary incantations.

It was indeed blood, and it had been taken by force. With growing dread, Harry took his letter opener and pricked his finger, letting one droplet of blood fall on the lower left corner of the parchment, away from the writing. If it was truly Draco’s blood, its magical signature would match Harry’s due to the Blood Bond.

It did.

“Bugger!”

Harry flopped down on the chair in front of his desk and buried his face in his hands, trying to think. It seemed likely that Draco might be in true danger. It wasn’t completely inconceivable that somebody should try something like this. Harry was rich and he had made more than enough enemies during the war. If one twisted the facts enough, some people might even argue that since it was he who had defeated Voldemort, the dismal conditions under which the former Death Eater families now had to live were essentially his fault. And what better way was there to punish him and at the same time get a source of money?

What should he do? 

For one horrible moment, a cold voice spoke in the back of his mind, telling him that he shouldn’t do anything. Let the deadline go by, ignore any following letters. This was his chance to be free, maybe the only one he’d ever get.

No. “I won’t,” Harry whispered. It would be like murder, like he did it himself.

He’d try and save Draco, it was the only way. But how? At work, they always told relatives not to comply without notifying the authorities. Concealed Aurors supervising the handing over of the ransom were a vital security measure and had resulted in capture of the kidnappers more than once. On the other hand, there were those cases in which things had gone wrong and the presence of Aurors had, in fact, meant the victim’s death. Harry shuddered as he remembered the one time he’d had to deal with this. He couldn’t let it happen to Draco under any circumstances. 

It was only when he reached out to read the parchment a third time that Harry noticed he was shaking. He couldn’t think clearly, that much was obvious. Before his inner eye, the image of a dead Draco formed, and then a funeral at the same graveyard as eleven months ago, only this time it was Draco, not Narcissa, who was lowered into the dark, cold crypt.

No. He couldn’t allow that. But what should he –

Hermione and Ron! He’d ask them for advice! Ron was a fellow Auror, and Hermione was always far more level-headed than either of them. They should be home now; Ron had left work at the same time as Harry to grab a bite before he’d meet with him at the Ministry again to aid him in his search.

Harry got up and rushed to his fireplace.

He found his friends in their kitchen, eating leftover black bean soup from the previous evening when Harry had eaten with them. They both looked up in surprise when Harry stormed into the room.

“Did you find him?” Ron wanted to know.

“No. Look!” Harry thrust the parchment at him. 

Ron stared at it in confusion. 

“Take it!”

Ron obeyed, and as he read, his bewildered expression turned serious. “Bloody hell!”

“What?” Hermione asked “What’s wrong?”

Ron handed her the parchment. “It’s a ransom note. And it looks as if was signed with a Blood Quill. Harry, did you verify it?”

Harry nodded. “It’s Draco’s.”

“Damn!”

Hermione, who’d finished the letter, had gone white. “This is very serious, Harry. I think it’s legit.”

“So do I,” Ron said. “It fits the usual pattern, it’s Malfoy’s blood, and as your husband, he is the perfect target.”

Harry’s heart sank. He had expected that they would say it and still, somehow, he’d hoped that they would convince him that it wasn’t true. That it was a mystery that might be solved in some other way.

“You have to inform the other Aurors. You should go to the Ministry right now.”

“I don’t know, Hermione,” Ron said. “It might not be the best idea.”

“How can you say that? You’re not seriously suggesting he should go alone? It’s far too dangerous! What if – ”

“What if they kill him?” Harry interrupted. “I can’t risk that! And it can happen, it’s realistic. The last time Aurors got involved, _we_ got involved, a woman died. Remember the Laverick case?”

Hermione nodded unhappily. “Still, I think it would be wiser –”

“Harry’s right,” Ron said calmly. “That case was a disaster, and it could happen here too. We’ve got no idea who these people are and what they’re capable of. We can be happy they only used a Blood Quill to make sure Harry understood they’re for real.”

Hermione stayed silent for a few moments, thinking.

“All right,” she said in the end. “Let’s assume he goes alone, no Aurors and neither you nor me under his Invisibility Cloak. What if the delivers the money, comes back safely, and then they won’t hand over Draco? What if they think if he pays this much, they can try and get more out of him? And don’t tell me that doesn’t happen.”

“It does,” Harry conceded, “but we’ll have to risk it. And I don’t care about the money; all I want is to try and get Draco to safety. If they want more, I can give them that. If I don’t give them anything, Draco dies anyway.” And that was something he simply couldn’t let happen. “I promised to protect him, not only when I married him but to his mother, on her deathbed.”

“It’s a lot to risk for an arsehole like him, even if you made a promise,” Ron said.

“I know. But if this were a case, don’t tell me you wouldn’t try your damndest to get him free. You’d risk your life for him as well, we all would.”

“Oh, I would. He’s an arsehole, but he doesn’t deserve to die.” Ron smiled grimly. “I got over that phase. Now, 250,000 Galleons, that’s a lot. Almost a million Muggle pounds. Can you pay that, and more if need be?”

“Uh, yeah. That part is no problem.” Although he was glad that he could afford it without thinking twice, Harry felt somewhat uncomfortable nonetheless. With the money he’d inherited from his parents and especially from Sirius, he was far too rich for his own tastes. If he didn’t want to, he’d never have to work again and still wouldn’t be able to spend it all. “And the goblins keep Gringotts open until nine, that’s in . . .” he quickly glanced at the ticking clock. “Almost an hour. I could get the money if I went right away.”

“I think you should do it,” Ron said. “Deliver the money just as they demand, then go home and wait for Malfoy. We’ll allow for a 20-minute delay, then Hermione and I will Floo over to your place. It’s better if we don’t get there before you come back, just in case somebody is monitoring the house. If Malfoy’s not there by the time we come, at 11:50, we’ll Floo straight to the Ministry and alarm the guys on night shift. It means they either want more money or, well, they killed him.”

Harry nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He was glad Ron’s professional side had taken over, but hearing it like this was still dreadful. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Why do you think they chose Ottery St. Catchpole?” Hermione asked.

Ron shrugged. “Could be any reason, but I doubt it’s because any of them lives near there. They usually aren’t that stupid. My guess? It’s because Harry’s familiar with the place. Everyone who bothers knowing a little bit about him knows he’s been spending time with our family there for years.”

“That makes sense.”

“I’ll get the money now, before it’s too late,” Harry said.

“Should one of us come with you?” Hermione suggested.

“No. They might be monitoring Diagon Alley. Gringotts. To see if I’m getting the money. I should be alone.”

“All right.” Hermione got up from her seat and hugged Harry tightly. “Take care,” she whispered. Her voice was trembling. “I don’t want to lose you.”

He distanced himself slightly and looked at her. “You won’t. I’ll be home safely when you come, and so will Draco.”

“I hope so.”

After he and Ron had exchanged a fierce hug as well, Harry left, Apparating directly to the Apparition Point close to the Leaky Cauldron.

It wasn’t a problem at all to get the money he needed, and Harry was glad that the goblins never asked any questions. By 8:40pm he was home again and began restlessly pacing the living room, going over a hundred ways how things could go wrong in his mind. They were very different scenarios, some involving former Death Eaters, some his Auror colleagues, but all of them ended with Draco dead and him organising another funeral.

9:07pm. Time seemed to creep like a snail. Watching TV didn’t help; he couldn’t concentrate on the programme. 

At 9:36, he began counting the shrunken Galleons, making little piles of 50 around him. They looked like strange golden miniature pennies.

10:24. This was ridiculous. Harry quickly shovelled the Galleons back into the old leather bag he’d brought with him to Gringotts. He began pacing again.

At 10:58pm, Harry Apparated. 

He knew the crossroads the ransom note had mentioned perfectly well – he and Ginny had liked to take extended walks through the area and having picnics while they had been together. 

Now, nothing was further from his mind. It was cold and pitch-black – no snow even in January – and Harry drew his wand and performed a _Lumos_ charm to be able to orient himself. He was standing in the middle of the crossroads where the two dirt roads met. Just in front of him, he could make out the signpost with the rock underneath. Straining his ears, he tried to listen for any noise, however small, but there was nothing. 

And it wasn’t as if he was here to do anything but place the money and go home again. They could try and get the bastards later, when Draco was safe. Harry took a deep breath. His mouth was incredibly dry. He slowly approached the signpost and was able to roll the stone to the side, and as the note had said, there was a hollow, apparently freshly dug only hours ago. 

Harry licked his dry lips and carefully placed the bag inside it – and just as he made to get up again, something heavy hit him straight over the head. The world faded to black.

**oOoOoOoOoOo**

** Part 3: A Study in Silence **

He was floating in darkness.

There was nothing – no sound, no image, no sensation. Only darkness and the light, soothing feeling of floating through it, wrapped in soft wadding.

He didn’t have words for any of this, no concept of what he was feeling. No name for himself. He existed, he felt, and for the longest time, that was the entire world. 

The time came when sounds invaded this world, and slowly, slowly, they morphed into voices. 

“Coma” . . . “six weeks already”. . . “can’t be certain” . . . “was so, so stupid, such an idiot” . . . “might be damaged beyond” . . . “not even with magic” . . . “please, Harry, come back!”

He understood nothing of what they said; they washed over him and he didn’t know they belonged to humans, or what humans were.

As time went on, he learnt to differentiate between them. Some changed, but a few always stayed the same. They were vaguely familiar, as if he were supposed to know them from somewhere.

One was soft and pleasant, a steady flow of words that never stopped, and he liked listening to it. 

Another was just as pleasant, but it spoke less and broke often. Sad. The word came to him as he listened. It sounded terribly sad. With it often came one that was deep and gentle, and it was sad in another, quieter way. 

Then there was the angry voice, and at first, it had scared him. It was harsh, often loud unexpectedly. But there was a time when the first, pleasant voice interrupted, and by the time it stopped speaking, the loud voice made strange, wailing sounds. Crying. It was then that he realised that all of the other voices had done the same. From then on, this voice was still angry, but less so, and without understanding how or why, he knew that it wasn’t truly angry – it was sad as well.

All the regular voices were sad, and, as he realised slowly, also most of the others, and he began wondering why. He wasn’t sad – he was nothing. Only dark, floating. Comfortable.

There was one more voice coming often – more than all the others – and this one was even sadder than them. Many times, he could barely hear it, and many times, it wouldn’t say anything, only cry. More and more, the idea formed that he wanted to reach out to it somehow, make the sadness go away, but he didn’t know how that could happen.

The colours were new and confusing as they bled into his mind. They seemed to belong to the voices: each voice had specific ones belonging to it. He didn’t see them – it was still dark all around – but in a way, he knew they were there.

Soft brown for the pleasant, flowing voice, accompanied by a smell that was old and dry. ‘Of books and parchment,’ something deep down supplied.

Red for the second soft voice as well as for the angry one, fiery and glittering in the light like molten copper. Earthy browns and greens for the deep voice that belonged to one of the red ones.

And a confusing mixture of grey, blond, and green. ‘Green like Slytherin.’ Slytherin – what was that? This was the saddest voice, the voice that needed comfort. More and more often, the pleasant brown voice seemed to provide it. It talked softly, and the crying would stop. He was glad.

“Harry.”

It was the first word that began to make sense. He’d become dissatisfied with merely listening, listening to sounds he could not understand. He was tired most of the time, and he always drifted to sleep while the voices were still speaking. But when he was awake – he’d found out the difference between them only recently – he would strain, trying to think. Trying to understand.

“Harry.” They said it again and again. Why? It must be important. 

“Harry, I’m sorry.” – “Harry, we miss you.” – “Harry, wake up!”

_He_ was Harry.

The realisation came so strong and sudden that every other thought was wiped from his mind for a while. The voices became less important. He was Harry. He had a name. He was a person – and with that realisation, many things seemed to fall into place. There were memories, of his own face and others, all faces he knew, and they, too, had names.

Names were words, and words had meaning. They became understandable, first single ones, but soon all of them. 

“Harry.” It was the soft red voice. “It’s been so long, almost three months. We can’t lose you. Please . . . please try.”

Ginny.

A flood of memories came rushing back. A small red-headed girl, too shy to speak to him. A beautiful teenage girl smiling at him over her Potions homework. A woman flying on a broom – ’playing Quidditch’ – and naked with him in bed. Names for children. A quiet goodbye. A friendship.

After that, all the voices became names, got memories attached to them. Every time he was awake, he remembered more, his mind getting clearer.

Hermione was here, reading to him nearly every day. He knew some of the books; she’d chosen his favourites. Her hand was a gentle weight on his arm – another change. He’d begun to feel touch, was no longer floating. 

Ginny and Neville, often visiting together. 

“I don’t want to visit him like I do with my parents, for years,” Neville said.

“It won’t happen. He’s strong, he’ll fight this.” Ginny’s hand was cupping his cheek, caressing gently. “He’ll be there at our wedding, we just have to postpone for a while, you’ll see.”

Mrs Weasley, sobbing and kissing his cheeks. “You’ve always been our boy, too, Harry. Always.”

Mr Weasley, squeezing his shoulder, speaking quietly. “Don’t give up, son.”

George and Charlie came with their parents. 

There were Bill and Fleur, and Luna and Percy, who’d had their second girl, Adelaide, some months ago, as Harry remembered. 

Andromeda, Seamus, Hagrid, Headmistress McGonagall, his colleagues from work – even Pollack stopped by one day.

Ron’s large, warm hands, enveloping Harry’s. “Come on, mate. You can do this! I can’t . . . don’t you _dare_ die on me! I won’t lose another brother!”

Dying?

It was the first time that Harry questioned himself. Why was it dark? Where was he? Why was he here? What had happened? Why was he like . . . this?

“The search for Muggle doctors who’re willing to have a look starts tomorrow.” It was Hermione, speaking to Ginny. “Hollingberry finally caved in to our appeals to let them into St. Mungo’s, but I doubt it would have worked if it were anyone but Harry. The article about his refusal was published today, have you read it? It’s vicious. Hollingberry Firecalled St. Mungo’s administration at 9am this morning, probably right after he read it and the first protests came in. Luna and Percy hit gold with that idea. At least Rita Skeeter is good for something, for once.” 

Doctors. St. Mungo’s. He was injured. Badly, as it seemed. If they were bringing in Muggle doctors, that meant . . . what? The Healers didn’t know what to do and needed help? From _Muggles_?

Harry panicked.

‘What’s going on?’ he wanted to ask. ‘What happened? Somebody tell me!’

There was no sound. He couldn’t speak. He wanted to get up, get out of bed, but nothing happened. He couldn’t move. And why was it always dark? There was only one answer: he hadn’t even been able to open his eyes once since he had woken up! Why hadn’t he _noticed_?

‘Help me!’ he tried again. ‘HELP!’

Nothing. Not even a moan. _Anything_.

The panic grew stronger, his chest tightened. Breathing became hard and almost painful. He needed to calm down. He was safe, right? He was at St. Mungo’s, his friends were with him. The Healers were working hard, and they’d get assistance from Muggle doctors. They had methods Healers knew nothing about – maybe they’d find a way to help him.

He was safe. Everything would be all right. His friends were here, and the Healers would find a way. He was safe. Slowly, the panic subsided. Everything would be all right. He was safe. The pain in his chest ebbed away, and he could breathe more freely again. Everything would be all right.

Harry’s head was aching from all the thinking, and he felt hot and exhausted. In the background, Hermione and Ginny spoke softly. Their presence was soothing. He was safe. They’d take care. He was safe . . . and then, thankfully, he slept. 

When he woke up for the next time, there were gentle fingers running through his hair. Who was it? Harry tried opening his eyes, but it didn’t work. Again. When he tried to say something, make any sound to make himself known, nothing would come. He remembered the panic from yesterday and tried not to get upset, although fear was welling up inside him. 

At least he was awake again, right? He’d woken up after sleeping every time so far. And he wasn’t alone. The stroking was nice, calming. 

‘Don’t stop, please.’ 

It didn’t. It went on, slow and rhythmic, and as time went by, Harry realised that he knew this. It had happened before, many times.

This was Draco.

Draco, who’d been so crushed ever since Harry had woken up and learnt to recognise his voice. Who’d say “I’m sorry” and “It’s my fault” almost every time he was here.

Why would he think that? He hadn’t done anything to Harry, had he? And why was he here in the first place? What did he have to do with Harry?

“I’m sorry,” Draco now whispered, like he did so often. “I should have known better. I should have known that as your husband I’d the perfect bait for people who wanted to hurt you. With all the enemies you made during the war, I should have known it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. I should have taken more care. If I’d thought of you for one minute instead of only myself . . .”

_Husband_?

And then it all came back. The Reparation Laws, the Blood Bond, their wedding. Narcissa asking Harry to take care of Draco. Draco drinking himself into oblivion, getting arrested, fucking like a rabbit without care for the repercussions. Them having sex. The kidnapping. And then . . . Harry couldn’t remember.

Draco had said something about bait and people wanting to hurt him. So that was what the kidnapping had been all about? Somebody using Draco as bait to get to Harry? Apparently, it had worked and they had hurt him, but he’d been saved, they had both been saved. Again, his head began aching. He wasn’t used to thinking anymore, that must be it. It was hard and tiring, and already, he felt fuzzy and like dozing off again. Draco was still petting his hair, and while right now, Harry felt resentful towards him, he still didn’t want it to stop. It was comforting and helped with the headache.

“Please wake up soon, Harry. Please.”

He would, soon. He’d show them that he was awake. He’d make it. But right now, all that he wanted was to sleep. Draco was talking more, but he couldn’t listen. Slowly, he drifted away and to sleep again.

When Harry once again woke up to darkness, he didn’t know whether it was day or night, as always. Sometimes, like now, nobody was there with him, but that didn’t have to mean anything. He tried to strain, listen for noises outside his room; maybe the bustling of St. Mungo’s might give him a clue.

There was the sound of the door opening, and footsteps approaching his bed, more than from only one person.

“Good morning, Harry.” Andromeda. And with her . . .

“Hi, Uncle Harry.” Teddy. 

There was an awkward silence, the screeching of chair legs over hospital floor, and more silence.

“I didn’t think he’d look like this,” Teddy said softly after a while.

How did he look?

“He was gone for five weeks, and they probably didn’t give him enough to eat,” Andromeda explained. “And then his body had to deal with all the injuries and didn’t accept food well. He’ll gain weight when he’s better.”

So he was thin. Well, that made sense.

“How is he eating anyway?”

A good question. The answer was probably magic.

“They spell potions directly into his stomach. They contain everything he needs.”

“And how . . .” Teddy began, but then trailed off. “Never mind. Why are his hands like that, Gran?” 

Like what?

“I’m not sure. The Healers said it’s because of the brain damage.”

Brain . . .

“Is that why his mouth is open and he’s drooling so much, too? Why he’s wearing that bib?”

_What_?

“I think so, yes.”

Cloth gently wiped over his chin and cheek, and only now did he realise that this had happened before, many times. 

He’d not noticed for weeks that he couldn’t move or open his eyes, he hadn’t noticed people had wiped his chin constantly, he had no idea what was wrong with his hands, so what else didn’t he notice? What else might be wrong? He felt people touching him – and sometimes not, apparently – but he still didn’t truly feel his body, _himself_. If he didn’t know he was lying down because somebody had said so, would he have noticed that? 

Brain damage. The Healers resorting to help from Muggle doctors because magic didn’t take them any further. If his brain was injured and magic was failing . . . Harry was terrified again.

What if he wouldn’t get better? What if he’d just stay like this forever? For the rest of his life, lying in bed, paralysed, drooling – _shitting_ himself!? Was he wearing nappies? – without even being able to make a sound or see? Without anybody ever knowing that he was aware? 

No. No, he couldn’t allow himself to think like this! If he just lay here freaking out and being afraid, that wouldn’t help him one bit, he told himself. He couldn’t panic all the time. He couldn’t. He needed to _think_. It was exhausting, but the only thing he could do at the moment. Stay calm. Think.

If only he could open his eyes, then maybe they’d realise he was awake and would talk to him, explain everything. He couldn’t rely on listening to their conversations and maybe overhear some little detail, and another, and another. He might get things wrong. And he hated being talked about as if he wasn’t even here. He was here, he was awake!

He’d make them understand. Already, he’d come from a coma lasting weeks to waking periods, from merely hearing them speak to understanding, from not knowing who any of them were, who he was, to remembering everything. He could do this. He needed to keep himself together. Focus. Try hard until he made it. Until he could speak or open his eyes. _Something_ that would get their attention.

The idea made him feel better. He had a plan, something to work towards, and he had determination. The Healers would go on trying to find a way to help him, his friends would watch over him, and he would do his part. They could do this, together.

He hadn’t paid attention to Andromeda and Teddy while he’d been thinking, and when he focused on them again, he found that they were discussing Draco.

“But it’s not his fault,” Teddy was saying. “He can’t perform any powerful magic, so he couldn’t defend himself against them. And he didn’t expect it to happen. How should he have known?”

It sounded logical to Harry – it was what as an Auror he’d told kidnapping victims who had blamed themselves for their inattentiveness once they had been freed.

“You’re right. Everyone sees it that way, we’ve all told him that. And I’m sure Harry would say the same if he could. But it’s hard on him. You know, he thinks if he’d paid better attention, taken better care of himself . . . you do know he wasn’t well these last months.”

“I know. He was drinking too much. It’s why he’s checked himself into that rehab centre Hermione told him about when they found him and Uncle Harry.”

So Draco was going through rehab? Those were good news, at least. Harry was certain that everything would most likely have happened exactly like this even if Draco had been perfectly abstinent and alert, but he couldn’t help feeling a certain amount of schadenfreude. Draco had turned both their lives into a train wreck for years, and he deserved beating himself up over it.

“Yes,” Andromeda said, “and I’m glad about that. He’s getting better, and when Harry wakes up, maybe they can figure things out between them.”

“That would be good. You think he’ll wake up soon? It’s weird to think he’s been like this for weeks. He just . . . isn’t like Harry.”

“I hope so, Teddy.” A hand touched Harry’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “We all hope so.”

And no one more than Harry.

.-.-.-.-.

Days passed, maybe weeks, he couldn’t be certain. Harry drifted in and out of consciousness. Whenever he was awake, he tried his best to concentrate – stay awake longer, think sharper, listen to what people were saying. And his eyes. He needed to open his eyes. So far, he’d not managed that, but he was more alert and awake for much longer. He didn’t simply doze off after a short while, and thinking was no longer causing his head to hurt, most of the time.

He’d gathered more details about what had happened to him and what was happening in his friends’ lives as well.

Neville and Ginny had been on holiday on Fiji when he and Draco had been taken. Neville had proposed to her there, and they had planned an August wedding for this year. But with Harry still showing no visible signs of improvement now in early July, they had put off the date indeterminately.

“I’m not marrying without you,” Ginny had said. “I refuse, we both do. So you’ve got no choice. You said you wanted to see me happily married – well, you’ll have to make it happen now.”

“Help me out here, mate,” Neville had added. “I really do want to get married, but not without you, like she said. And I don’t want to visit you at this place for too long anymore.”

Hermione was the one who had brought up the idea of consulting Muggle doctors to see if they could help. Apparently, Muggles had made huge progress concerning coma cases, and when the Healers had realised that they couldn’t find out even with magic what was going on – the brain was too complex to be fully understood even in the Wizarding world – they had agreed to give it a shot. 

Minister Hollingberry had tried to prevent it, citing the International Code of Wizarding Secrecy as a reason and threatening legal consequences to everyone going against it. Then Luna and Percy had suggested they go to the media. Percy, who worked closely with the Minister’s secretary these days, had said that Hollingberry, while he managed to suppress discord inside the Ministry with an iron fist, thrived on popularity and wouldn’t weather a storm of public protest. 

Luna had contacted Rita Skeeter, who had agreed to write an article making propaganda against Ministry policy under the condition of being allowed to publish a picture of Harry along with it – something that made him sick with disgust when he heard it first. The entire Wizarding world had seen him lie here like this? 

It had proven to be the way to success, however: the _Prophet_ , the _Quibbler_ , and a few other small Wizarding papers and magazines had published the story, and not even an hour after the first of them had come out in the morning, public outrage had hit the Ministry – there had even been death threats against Hollingberry.

“The Muggle doctors are due in three days,” Hermione finally told him. “They’re all neurology specialists and highly acclaimed in their countries. I’m sure they can tell us at least something. You’ll see, Harry.” She kissed his forehead gently. “I promise we’ll find a way.” 

“She picked them all personally.” Ron’s voice. “Researched them on that . . . that internet thing, wrote them electric letters and phone-called. She wouldn’t stop bothering them until they agreed to come.”

Harry smiled in his mind. This was the Hermione he knew. She’d be like this. And Ron . . . From what his Auror colleagues told him when they visited and talked to him, Ron had been amazing. Ruskin had put him in charge of finding Harry and Draco, and it had been the right decision. He’d worked tirelessly day and night, five long weeks until they had found them. He’d gone after every promising lead, had used every source of information and done some brilliant strategic thinking. When they’d found the hideout and taken the kidnappers down, he had been the first to go in. 

“Man, you should have seen him,” Auror Breckenridge said. “He stormed in there like a wild lion, like Godric Gryffindor himself. Took two of the six out before we were even inside.”

Harry was still surprised to learn just how loved he was. How important to a large number of people, all visiting him, telling him they missed him, asking him to fight and come back to them. It was overwhelming – he’d known they were his friends, his family even, but somehow, he had never realised what it truly meant.

And then there was Draco.

Harry’s schadenfreude was long gone; by now, all he wanted in regards to Draco was that he’d stop blaming himself. It was painful to listen to, every time more so. I’m sorry. I should have. If only. Just as he had when Draco had been nothing but a sad, unintelligible voice, Harry wished he could do something. Tell him to stop worrying, that it wasn’t his fault. Comfort him.

And wasn’t that bizarre? He was the one who was hurt, he was the one who couldn’t move a muscle, and he was still scared shitless. And yet, he wanted to help others, even Draco. Was that who Harry was? Was that what the war, what Voldemort and Dumbledore had shaped him to be? Or would he be like this even without those experiences?

And did it truly matter?

Luckily, there were others to do the job for him, and luckily, Draco let them – Ginny, Neville, Mr and Mrs Weasley, and first of all Luna and Hermione. Harry wouldn’t have believed Hermione and Draco would ever be civil; especially that Draco would accept her had seemed beyond the realm of possibility. But it was what had happened.

It was Hermione who kept telling him that there was nothing he could have done. That he’d never have stood a chance against the kidnappers. They would have got him no matter whether or not he’d been drinking. No matter whether or not he and Harry were getting along. That nobody blamed him. That Harry wouldn’t, never. And more and more, Draco seemed to want to believe her. 

If there was one good thing amidst all of this mess, Harry thought, it was this. Draco getting sober, getting a grip on himself. Leaving behind whatever it had been that had screwed him up before. Accepting others trying to help him and being his friends. Maybe once Harry was out of here, they could have something like a bearable life together.

But for that, Harry really needed to make progress.

.-.-.-.-.

“Tomorrow, the Muggle doctors are coming first thing in the morning.” Draco was petting his hair like he always did, and Harry could feel his other hand on the back of his own. He was leaning in closely, emitting the pleasant, familiar scent of his cologne. “I don’t believe that they could find out anything that magic can’t. I don’t really understand Muggle technology, but it can’t be as good as magic. It’s coming from _Muggles_ , after all.”

Shouldn’t Draco have left such silly ideas behind after nine years of living and working among them? Surely, he’d come into touch with impressive technology he couldn’t dismiss.

“But you never know,” he went on. “These computers they have . . . to me, they almost look like magic.”

And the same went for most Muggles, Harry thought with faint amusement.

“So, I think it was a good idea Hermione brought them in. And going to the press like that to put Hollingberry under pressure was genius. Your friends, they really are something.” Draco sounded thoughtful, and his caresses on Harry’s hair slowed down. “Even Weasel – I mean Weasley. He’d still like to punch me every time he sees me, I can tell, but he was the first to tell me I couldn’t have changed anything. That he’d had several cases like this and even people who could use all their magic and were sober couldn’t see it coming.”

He sighed deeply. “He’s right. They all are. It’s just . . . hard to accept. They weren’t there. They didn’t see what happened, what those bastards did to you . . .”

He didn’t go into detail, he never had, and Harry was glad about it. He didn’t remember anything, nothing between placing the ransom under the stone and waking up here, and he didn’t fancy the idea of that ever changing. The kind of torture that could put you into this state was something nobody would want to remember. The left-over Death Eaters who had captured them – nobody had mentioned their names – were now in Azkaban, Ron had told him. Their trial had been swift and without mercy; Hollingberry had been useful for that at least. They would never see the sunlight again. To Harry, that was all he ever needed to know.

“I really was an arsehole, you know,” Draco said. “You were civil, heck, you were even friendly. After I’d threatened to kill you if you didn’t agree with the Blood Bond, you still tried to get along. Visited my mother, protected her from my nonsense. You were there the night after she died, you _held me_ and told me I wasn’t alone. And I . . .” 

‘Shut up, will you?’ Harry thought. ‘Don’t let this turn into the usual.’ He was so tired of hearing it.

Slowly, Draco’s hand wandered down from Harry’s hair to his cheekbone. It vanished for a moment, then Harry felt how his cheek and chin were dried carefully with the bib. He’d have to get rid of that as soon as possible, too. 

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” Draco went on. Now his hand was cupping Harry’s cheek, soft and warm. He should have felt annoyed that everyone thought they could touch him, and with some he did, but for some strange reason, Draco of all people didn’t belong to them. 

“I’ve been doing nothing but thinking. The _Hecate Domicile_ is a good place for that. If you make it through this . . . no, _when_ you’ve made it through this and are back home . . . I know we can’t be lovers. I know that. But I’d like to try and be friends. _You_ tried to be friends, only I was too stupid to . . . well. Anyway. I hope once you can hear me, you’ll want the same.”

Harry did. He really did. Maybe he shouldn’t, after Draco had been blundering around like the greatest idiot on earth for years, but he found that he didn’t care so much about that. They were young and would be married for a very long time. It would be so much nicer to be married to a friend than to a hostile twat or even a civil stranger. And Draco was sincere, Harry knew it. This time, they would have a chance.

If only he could finally open his eyes, he thought for what must be the one millionth time. How could it be that hard? He’d done it for over thirty years without thinking – now it seemed to have turned into rocket science. A process he couldn’t get behind, no matter how hard he tried.

He’d done this so often: focused on the thought of his eyes. How they were covered by his eyelids, how these eyelids were supposed to work, to rise, and then there would be . . .

Light. 

_There was light!_

It was stinging in his eyes, making his head hurt more than he’d thought possible. But he couldn’t care. He’d done it. He was _seeing_!

There was a blurry shape in black robes and with blond hair. Slowly, it became more focused – though not completely without his glasses – and turned into Draco. Draco who was looking at Harry wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as if he had just turned into Voldemort.

“H-Harry?” It was barely a whisper, and his voice was shaking. “Harry, are . . . are you awake? Can you understand me?”

How could he let him know?

“Harry! I’m . . . I’m getting the Healers. Don’t fall asleep! Don’t close your eyes, do you hear me?”

Draco vanished from Harry’s field of vision, and there was the crash of a chair falling over and hitting the floor. The door opened abruptly and Draco was gone. Harry could hear him hysterically yelling through the corridors for the Healers.

He’d done it. He had really done it! And even while somebody was here with him. Harry was ecstatic. Now they’d realise that he’d been in here all along. Things were going to go uphill from here, he just knew it!

When the Healers rushed in only a minute later, his head felt close to exploding and his eyelids were as heavy as lead. He was trying with all his might to keep them from closing – at least until the Healers had seen him like this and maybe had an idea as to how to communicate. There would be a next time – there had to be a next time – but he wanted this now! He had waited long enough.

“Mr Potter?” It was Healer Dubois; Harry recognised the calm voice with the slight accent. When the face belonging to it turned up in front of him, he could just see him clearly enough to know that he man had grey-streaked black hair and a black full beard. “If you can understand what I say, can you blink twice?”

Could he?

Harry concentrated. Nothing happened. He tried again, and again. Nothing.

Damn! Why wasn’t this working? And why did his head have to hurt so much? He could barely focus anymore, he was in so much pain and so tired. His eyelids were growing heavier by the second, but he had to do this now, he had . . . and then his eyes slipped closed. Harry slept.

.-.-.-.-.

“. . . decorticate rigidity. It’s a definite sign of brain damage, though it might be less severe than if he were decerebrate . . .”

Harry woke up slowly, to a number of voices he hadn’t heard before.

“. . . might be ready in a few years’ time, but right now, the technology isn’t sophisticated enough to differentiate between . . .”

Technology?

“. . . impressive what they’re able to find out with only a few spells, but some things are not quite . . .”

“. . . generator is working properly, but you’re right. I can’t imagine living without electricity. Think of how much our medicine relies on . . .”

Generator, electricity – this had to be the Muggle doctors.

“And you say he opened his eyes, but didn’t blink when you asked him to?”

“Yes.” Harry recognised Healer Dubois’ voice. “But it was most likely the first time, and we can’t be sure what it means. It might simply have been too exhausting to even try. He was unconscious for months and if this was the first time he woke up at all . . .”

But it wasn’t, Harry thought, and this was the perfect opportunity to prove it. The residual sleepiness was gone as he focused on opening his eyes. For a few moments, he feared it wouldn’t work, but then, like the previous day, there was light.

“Dr Mason, look! He’s opened his eyes again.”

There was an excited buzz of voices, and soon, the heads of three men and a woman appeared in Harry’s field of vision, looking down on him.

“He should have his glasses,” the woman said. A hand appeared and handed them to her, and she carefully put them on Harry. The world swam into focus.

“Let’s try blinking again first,” she said. “Mr Potter? Harry? If you can understand me, please blink twice.”

It didn’t work, again. Damn, why wasn’t this working? He could open his eyes but not blink at will? That made no sense.

They tried again, several times, apparently assuming that maybe even if he was awake, he needed some repetitions to understand them. It frustrated him – he was perfectly clear in the head! – but however much he tried, he couldn’t blink voluntarily even once. There was one time when he blinked out of reflex right after they asked, but it was only one blink, and they discarded that, since it was a single occurrence. Another time, he managed to close his eyes, but couldn’t open them for a while. They thought he was falling asleep.

“Can you stick out your tongue, Harry?”

“Can you move anything? Maybe a finger?”

“Can you make any sound?”

Nothing.

“Let’s try the mirror,” the woman, Dr Mason, said in the end. “Can you elevate the bed so that he’s half sitting?” 

“Yes, I can spell it,” Healer Dubois said. “Take a step back.”

There was an incantation, and then Harry felt how he slowly rose into a reclined, half lying and half sitting position. It made his stomach lurch and his head swirl – he’d not done anything but lie down in months.

A minute later, a mirror appeared in front of his face, and while he was still trying to get a grip on the dizziness, he forgot about it completely once his eyes focused on his mirror image.

_This_ was supposed to be him?

His face was pallid and thin, his nose sticking out prominently, eyes lying deep in their sockets behind the glasses. His mouth was wide open, his chin glistening wet with drool; a thick thread of it was hanging down on the piece of white cloth that was fastened around his neck. And just at the right edge of the mirror, on the bib on his chest, there was part of what looked like a tightly clenched fist.

This was awful. It couldn’t be him. It was too grotesque. It couldn’t!

Only it was. Harry remembered his friends’ and the Healers’ conversations about how he looked well, but hearing and seeing were entirely different. _This_ was who they had visited for months? Who they had touched? Who had been on the front page of the _Prophet_ for the entire Wizarding world to see? He wished the mirror would disappear, and if he’d been able to, he would have smashed it into a thousand pieces. A hand appeared and wiped his chin with the bib. It made him furious and he felt the strong impulse to bite it.

“Harry? Can you track yourself with your eyes in the mirror?”

Slowly, the mirror moved to the right, and while Harry didn’t want to look at himself any longer, he realised that he’d have to try. He couldn’t turn his head, but he should be able to move his eyes, right?

He wasn’t. Bit by bit, the mirror disappeared to the right, while Harry kept staring straight ahead. Then it came back, wandering from right to left, until it disappeared again.

“He’s not tracking.”

“Let’s try again. Harry, can you . . .”

Like the other tests, they repeated this multiple times, but in vain. With every time he failed to respond in a way they’d understand, Harry felt more desperate.

There were more tests – swallowing, painful stimuli, others he didn’t really understand, with Muggle contraptions of which he had no idea what they might be for. In the end, after he didn’t know how long, but long after another headache had set in, Harry’s eyes closed against his will and he could only listen. 

Draco and Hermione came in after the tests were over, beginning to ask questions. The doctors reported what had happened to them. They seemed to be no wiser than the Healers.

“He could be hearing us and be unable to respond,” one of the men, a bald doctor with glasses, said. “But it’s just as likely, maybe even more so, that the open eyes don’t mean anything. He could be in a vegetative state.”

“What is that?” Draco asked.

“It’s complicated to explain, but basically, it would mean that his brain was damaged so much that it only performs basic functions. Keeping him alive, keeping his body functional. He might open his eyes, be ‘awake’ during the day and sleep at night, even seem to look at you, move when you touch him, make sounds, swallow. But those would be nothing more than reflexes. He’d not be aware – of himself or anything around him.”

“We’ve had cases like that in the Wizarding world,” Dubois added. “Even with magic, we can’t figure out whether they’re like what you just described or whether they’re aware.”

“So do Muggles have a way to determine the difference?” Draco asked.

“Not yet.” It was the woman again. “We’re making progress concerning computer science. We hope than in a few years, we can develop software that is sophisticated enough so it will be able to interpret brainwaves in such a fashion that we’ll be able to tell if a person understands what they’re told. But we’re not there yet.”

“So there’s no way to tell?” Hermione asked.

“I’m sorry, but right now, no. We’ll stay a few more days, like we agreed. We’ll perform more tests. Today might simply have been a bad day. Many people, even if they’re aware, have problems processing what’s happening and might not always respond. Maybe tomorrow will be different.”

“I see. Thank you.”

There was the shuffling of feet, the door opening and closing, and the room went silent – but Harry felt that he wasn’t alone.

His hair was touched. “I can’t believe you could be gone forever.” Draco. His voice was trembling, and he sounded as frightened as Harry felt. “You’ll show them, won’t you? Tomorrow will be different, like the doctor said.”

It wasn’t. The same tests were performed, with the same results. More and more, Harry felt like screaming with frustration and fear. How could this be happening? And why to _him_? What had he done to deserve it? Hadn’t he been through enough?

The third day came, and it went by like the previous ones. On the fourth day, the Muggle doctors paid their final visit.

“Of course he might need a few weeks until he can respond,” Dr Mason said. “Or maybe months. It’s impossible to tell. But if nothing changes at all . . .”

“. . . then he’s most likely not aware and never will be,” Hermione finished softly. “That’s what you wanted to say, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, but yes.”

What if he’d never manage to make any sign? Opening his eyes hadn’t changed anything, and if things went on like this, they might come to believe that he was a vegetable. He still might be stuck here, like this, forever.

For weeks, Harry had tried to be optimistic, tried to keep up hope, but right now . . . right now, for the first time, he wondered if it wouldn’t have been better if he had died.

.-.-.-.-.

The next weeks went by without change. Every day, the Healers would try to get him to blink, to move, track a mirror. It never worked. 

Hermione – of course – began reading books, telling them about things they could try to make Harry react. 

On her advice, Draco brought the portable CD player from home and they started playing Harry’s favourite music. It was relaxing and helped with the boredom, but he wondered what they were expecting. That he’d break out into song all of a sudden?

They brought scented oils and perfumes for him to smell, holding them close under his nose. Some were okay, but most only gave him a headache.

Then Hermione got it in her head to see if tasting things might somehow help. They stuck something into his mouth that looked like some kind of swab and tasted of lemon. After a few times, Harry felt his mouth close reflexively.

“Maybe he could eat by himself?” Hermione said.

They tried giving him thickened nutrient potions in a feeding cup – the same stuff the Healers spelled into his stomach. It was messy, but then he swallowed without his own doing when they stroked his throat. The potions were flavoured: vanilla and chocolate were nice. Orange was bearable. Strawberry tasted like vomit and made him gag, but since he tended to gag on the others as well, it didn’t make any difference.

More and more, Harry wished they would simply stop and leave him alone. The way they were handling him made him feel like a bizarre breathing doll, and it was obvious that nothing of it helped. He was truly stuck, and with every day that went by, he was losing hope – as were his friends and Draco. They tried not to show it; they rarely spoke other than optimistic in his presence these days. But he heard it in their voices, saw it in their eyes and strained smiles when they were close enough so he could look at them. At some point he noticed that Ron began coming less often.

“You mustn’t give up,” Hermione admonished him one day, in a hushed voice Harry could barely understand. “He might be in there, he might notice. You wouldn’t want him to see you abandoning him.”

“I just can’t, Hermione! Don’t push me.”

“I know how hard it is on you. It’s the same for me, for all of us. But you must think of Harry. What if –”

“I’m thinking about nothing _but_ Harry!” Ron snapped. “The way he’s just lying there . . . This is worse than Fred! At least Fred’s gone and buried. Harry . . . it’s like he’s dead, only he’s breathing, but there’s nothing there.”

“Ron, we can’t know if –” 

“ _Look_ at him!” he yelled. “There’s nothing there! Stop deluding yourself!” He was silent for a moment, then added much quieter, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore.”

There were quick steps and the door slammed shut. Ron had left. Hermione was crying. Ron was right, Harry thought, that was the worst thing: this was worse than Fred. For both him and Harry.

August came and went by, then a week of September, and another. Slowly, the Healers began suggesting that there was nothing to be done anymore. That most likely, Harry wasn’t aware and that this was as good as it would ever get.

He should have been upset, outraged that they were giving up. He should have been desperate. But all he could feel was relief paired with a strange, growing numbness. This was how it was. Nobody could change it. Not Healers, not Muggle doctors. Not his friends with whatever they tried, and not Draco, no matter how much _he_ was despairing, growing more and more silent with every day. And least of all Harry.

This was how it ended, how his life would be until the day he would die: in a bed at St Mungo’s, looking at a wall with an enlarged magical photo Hermione had put there. It showed him with her, Ron, and Ginny, laughing and waving into the camera in front of the Black Lake. Harry wished that somebody would take it away.

 

~TBC~

 

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	2. Chapter 2

Draco was talking to Percy and Luna, who had come to visit. It was apparently Sunday, and the children were with Mr Lovegood. Harry wished they’d at least bring four-year-old Frederica, but Percy was against it.

“She’d only be frightened,” he had argued, and Luna hadn’t been able to convince him of the contrary.

Harry wasn’t truly listening to their conversation; he didn’t really listen much anymore these days. What was the purpose? He slept as much as he could, and when he was awake, he often didn’t bother opening his eyes. Instead, he imagined himself back into the past: how it had been to fly on a broom, how the food at Hogwarts had been so delicious. How he and Ginny had slept in on weekends at Grimmauld Place only to be greeted by fresh breakfast Kreacher had made when they finally came down into the kitchen. How he’d fooled around and had fun with Ron and the other Gryffindor boys. Even doing his homework with the help of Hermione. Memories were all that he had left, and he would go insane with boredom without them.

“What?” Percy’s voice sharply cut through Harry’s haze. “Are you certain?” He sounded rather nonplussed, Harry thought absent-mindedly.

“I am,” Draco said. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks and talked it through with Hermione more than once, and with my counsellor at the programme. I’ll take him home. I want to take care of him.”

That got Harry’s full attention in a heartbeat. Draco wanted to take him home with him? Why?

“I think that’s a very good idea,” Luna said.

Percy made a doubtful sound. “The Ministry won’t like it. They will suspect you of wanting to hurt him.”

“Oh, that’s absurd! We’ve been married for over six years. I would have had ample opportunity to hurt him if I wanted to.”

“Of course it’s absurd, but you know how they are, and it won’t change under Hollingberry. He should never have become Minister after Death Eaters killed his Muggle wife. You know how large his following at the Ministry still is; most of them lost something or somebody during the war. They’ll make this hard for you, cook something up about how you only married him for money and then bode your time until you could catch him when he was helpless. Some such nonsense. Believe me, I know how they work.” He sounded frustrated. “The place is a madhouse these days!”

“But is there anything they can do, realistically?” Draco asked. “Harry named Hermione and your brother to make any medical decisions for him, it’s specified in the authorisation he gave them and in our marriage contract. If they allow it, it should be valid. They can’t question them.”

That was true – they were both Ministry employees and Harry’s best friends. The Ministry couldn’t possibly find fault with them and would have to bow to their decision. And it sounded as if they had agreed, which wasn’t all that unlikely, now that he thought about it. Especially Hermione trusted Draco, and Ron, while he didn’t like him, would never share the Ministry’s ridiculous suspicions.

“Not that, but they will probably argue that you’re deluding them. All of us. In the end, though, I doubt that they can truly prevent it. They’ll only make it a long and tiring process. And this time, we can’t rely on the public’s support to get it over with more quickly. You’ve got no sympathies there.”

“Tell me something that I don’t know,” Draco said wearily. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you –”

“I’ll look into it,” Percy promised. “His secretary, Floyd – I might be able to make him see our point. He used to be a supporter – his daughter is here permanently due to curse damage – but he’s been questioning the Minister more and more lately. Together, we could find a way to make this go quicker, and if you need a lawyer, I’ll point you to the right ones.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem. You’re Harry’s husband and have every right to take him home. And personally, if it was me, I wouldn’t want to stay here.”

Harry wasn’t so sure if he agreed with Percy there. Of course, Draco wouldn’t hurt him, he knew that much. The idea was insane. But how could he know if he was stable enough to take care of him reliably? It had only been a few months since he’d been hopelessly drunk for the better part of the day. What if he slipped and relapsed? 

There was no way to tell, Harry realised. Hermione and Ron seemed to be for it, and Draco’s counsellor at the abstinence programme apparently didn’t object. He’d have to trust their judgement in this.

.-.-.-.-.

“Morning, Harry.” Draco wiped Harry’s cheek and chin dry, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Ready to start the day?”

‘Not really,’ Harry thought. He’d rather have kept sleeping. But it wasn’t as if he had a choice. He had been home with Draco for almost two months now – he’d come home right after Christmas, after the Ministry had stopped interfering at last – and he knew the routine by heart.

“All right, then,” Draco said with what was supposed to be a smile, but what looked more like a grimace. “Let’s get you dressed.”

Harry hated getting dressed. At St. Mungo’s, they had spelled him into clean clothes, but Draco couldn’t do that, and it took him forever to get the nightshirt off and the joggers and jumper on Harry. And in between that . . .

He was carefully rolled to the side, and when Draco moved him onto his back again a short while later, he could feel the cool rubber mat under his back and legs.

This was the point when Harry tried to check out mentally. Think of anything else but what was happening. Draco had petitioned the Ministry to be allowed to learn the spells they used at St. Mungo’s to empty Harry’s bladder and bowels, but he’d been turned down categorically. Not even the lawyer Percy had found, who had managed to get the Ministry to back down concerning Harry going home, had managed to accomplish anything in the matter. Like Muggles, Draco had been forced to resort to nappies for Harry. At least he could clean him with cleaning spells instead of by hand, his magic allowed that much, but still. It was more than humiliating.

Quidditch. Harry tried to think of Quidditch, of the Snitch fluttering just out of reach as he raced after it, hand outstretched, body flattened against his broom, the wind ruffling his hair and tearing at his robes. Slowly, he got closer and closer, just a moment and he would grab it! He could see it all before him, could almost hear the cheers of the crowd . . .

Draco made a small gagging sound. The wind and the Snitch were gone. Harry was lying in bed, helpless, naked, his butt smeared with shit.

Why hadn’t he died? His whiny thoughts of wanting to be dead when he’d had a hangover came to his mind. He’d been such an idiot.

There was the cleaning spell, then a fresh nappy carefully put on him.

“All done.”

Wonderful.

“Hermione is going to visit with us this afternoon,” Draco said as he put Harry’s socks on. “It’s Tuesday, so I’ve got my appointment at the _Hecate_ programme.”

Draco had weekly appointments with a counsellor there, and he stuck to them meticulously. He truly seemed to have kicked the booze to the curb. Harry wasn’t certain if he was all that happy about it. If Draco relapsed, it would be St. Mungo’s again. No more nappies, no more Draco seeing him naked like this. And maybe no more vomit-flavoured potion either.

“I was thinking strawberry for breakfast,” Draco said as if on cue, while he threaded Harry’s arm through the sleeve of his jumper and then gently put the fisted hand back against his stomach. “Now the right one.” That one was pressed against Harry’s chest, and it hurt in his elbow and shoulder to have it lifted more than an inch. At least Draco was always very careful.

When he was finally dressed, had his glasses on and a fresh bib around his neck, Draco manoeuvred him into the wheelchair he’d bought, a huge contraption with a head rest and slightly reclined back, since Harry couldn’t sit fully upright. In the beginning, it had hurt his back like hell to sit in it for even five minutes; by now, he made it through breakfast halfway okay.

“There’s really something to be said for Muggle technology. It doesn’t come close to magic, of course, but they’re trying nicely to compensate for it. Poor sods, until they discovered electricity, they were even more primitive,” Draco remarked as he pushed Harry into the lift he’d had installed. It was Hermione who had argued in favour of the wheelchair and lift when Harry had still been at St. Mungo’s. Draco could have levitated Harry, but she hadn’t thought it would be a good idea.

“Look here,” she had told him, and Harry had heard the rustling of pages. “It says that we can’t know how much he notices. He’s not aware, but he might still feel being touched, and other things. Levitating might frighten him; he wouldn’t know what was happening to him.”

She was meaning well, but Harry had been annoyed. If only she’d stop accumulating knowledge she really didn’t need. It didn’t apply to him. But of course, she couldn’t know.

In the kitchen, Draco didn’t fix himself anything. He would eat later, when Harry was finished. 

“All right, here we go.”

The cup appeared in front of Harry’s face, and as Draco had announced, it held faintly red strawberry potion. The spout went into his mouth; the thick potion ran out of it and over Harry’s tongue. Draco touched his throat, stroking gently, and Harry swallowed. And gagged. The taste was too disgusting. 

He was coughing, potion was spilling over his chin onto the bib and his right hand. Some of it ran down his neck and under the bib, into his jumper. Right now, if he were able to murder Ginny for telling Draco how much he liked fresh strawberries, he would have done it.

“Shhh, it’s all right.” Draco’s hand was on Harry’s shoulder, firm and comforting as he gasped for air. In the end, the coughing stopped and he could breathe again.

“There, all finished,” Draco said softly. He always spoke softly to Harry, and it was disturbing. It was more than bizarre to see him like this all day long, quiet and gentle. At St. Mungo’s, it hadn’t bothered Harry as much – Draco had not been there all the time, and somehow, in Harry’s mind, he hadn’t completely connected that Draco with the one who had lived with him here. Draco had been traumatised and guilt-ridden. It had been an extreme situation, for months. Now that daily life at home was setting in, Harry had somehow expected . . . he wasn’t sure what. But not this.

This just wasn’t _Draco_. Or maybe it was? Maybe this was Draco behind all the snark and insults, and Harry had never got to know him? Not that he had lost his bite; there had been enough jibes the one time Ron had visited, and there were quite a few scathing remarks directed at the telly. Not to forget that he still slipped up easily and thoughtlessly insulted Muggles and Muggle-borns, sometimes even in Hermione’s presence. But he was by no means the obnoxious git Harry had used to perceive him as. 

His hand, chin, and neck were cleaned, and Draco caressed his hair before he brought the cup back up to Harry’s mouth. “Now let’s try again.”

Finishing a full cup took about half an hour; Harry had heard Draco say it one day when he’d still been at St. Mungo’s. Luckily, the potions were so rich that Harry only needed four small cups a day.

When breakfast was over and Harry felt sick to his stomach, Draco wheeled him to the living room. He’d set up a wooden nursing bed there, right next to the big green couch. It was where Harry usually spent most of the day. 

“Okay, now let’s get you settled.”

In the beginning, Harry had feared he might fall when Draco lifted him all by himself, but the Muggle physiotherapist Draco had hired to come three times a week – another idea from Hermione’s books – had taught him how to do it properly. The bed came with an electric motor, and when Harry was settled in and covered with a warm fleece blanket, Draco activated it. It buzzed softly as it elevated the mattress to a comfortable position, leaving him halfway between lying and sitting.

Draco tucked the blanket snugly around him. “There you are. Now I’m going to have breakfast. I’ll be back soon.” With that, Draco’s head vanished from Harry’s vision. The thick carpet swallowed his steps as he left the room, and Harry slowly let his eyes flutter shut.

It must be around 9:30am now, and when Draco was done with breakfast, he’d come back to the living room, as he did most days. He would read for a while, or watch TV. Around noon, he’d feed Harry another cup of potion – in bed this time – after which he’d lower the mattress and Harry would doze off for a nap.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, the physiotherapist would come at 2pm to torture Harry for an hour. Around four, it was time for another meal, and after that, on some days, Draco might go to the room he’d set up as his painting room when he had first moved in. Harry had been surprised to find that Draco painted and wasn’t at all bad at it. The few times he had seen the pictures there had been mostly landscapes, lots of rivers and trees.

Evening would come, the last cup of potion around 8pm, then there’d be more reading or music or TV. Around ten, Draco would bring Harry to bed in his old bedroom. Draco himself had moved into the room next to Harry’s; there was a door connecting them that was never closed, just in case.

They were pretty boring and lonely days for Draco, Harry supposed, except for the few times Harry’s friends stopped by for an hour or two. Harry himself didn’t pay much attention – sometimes he listened to the music or the TV, or to Draco reading to him aloud, which he did occasionally. But mostly, he tried to zone out for as long as he could. 

As the weeks went by and winter turned into spring, to his relief the same numbness he’d felt at St. Mungo’s began setting in. He didn’t listen to what Draco said anymore, or to his friends when they visited with him. They once more faded to voices at the verge of his perception as he retreated into his head to think of happier days.

Summer came. Harry slept, he was cleaned and fed, over and over and over again. One day, he was taken outside to the garden and put on a thickly cushioned sunbed under a sunshade. The sun was shining warmly and the rosebushes were in full bloom. He didn’t much care. In his mind, he was flying on Buckbeak. Sirius was there as well, and together, they raced high over mountains and fields, far away from the heaviness of the earth. Far away from his body.

The point came when he didn’t even know what month it was. Why would it matter? Maybe one day, he wouldn’t notice the years. He didn’t think he would care. He wasn’t a part of things anymore, he didn’t have a life, didn’t truly belong in anybody’s life but Draco’s, and Draco was taking care of him purely out of guilt and some twisted sense of obligation. Right now, his friends pitied him, but like with Ron, the day would come when they would stay away, in a few months or years. Some might still come for Draco, maybe Hermione and Luna. But he would be forgotten eventually. Ron had been right – he was a breathing corpse, nothing more.

.-.-.-.-.

They were in the garden again; Draco took him out nearly every day when the weather was good.

“Here we are. I think I’ll lie down in the other one and read my book. It’s really good, you know. _Dragonfire Child_ by Barnadine Brummagem. It’s part of a series – I read you part one, I think, _The Dragon Tamer’s Wife_.”

Yeah, Harry remembered. It had been right after he had been moved back home in January. He’d been beyond bored, and Draco had been enthusiastic about the new book he had started to read. Eventually, he’d stopped in the middle of chapter three and started over, reading it to Harry from the beginning. It had been absurd, something about a young and beautiful pure-blood witch, an orphan, who was kidnapped by an evil Muggle king and held captive on his sinister castle. He had forced her to marry him against her will and there had been a long, disgusting description of the wedding night. In the end, though, she had been rescued by a wizard – the dragon tamer of course – and after they had lived through many perils and had almost been murdered by the evil king and his henchmen, they married and lived happily ever after. In the middle of turmoil, he had even managed to give her a night full of romance and pleasure, convincing her that it was nothing like what the Muggle king had done to her. The book had been absolute rubbish. 

Apparently, Draco adored this kind of thing. It didn’t seem to matter whether there were men or women involved; the main theme he was looking for was always the same clichéd story. And they all involved pure-blood witches or wizards having to be rescued from evil Muggles or at least Muggle-borns. A few times, some of the Muggle side-characters were decent, but always not even close to as pretty or as intelligent as the magical folks. Harry had soon stopped listening to this crud.

He hoped Draco wouldn’t read to him aloud today. The quiet of the little garden was peaceful, and he could dream well here. He would close his eyes and maybe think of dancing with Isabella – she worked at the Ministry, at the Goblin Liaison Office, and he’d had a short fling with her some months after Ginny.

“It’s nice today,” Draco said. “You know, I hope you notice that much. That it’s warm and sunny. That it’s nice.”

Harry had noticed, but he didn’t care. Why did Draco never stop speaking to him, he wondered. It wasn’t as if he could expect an answer or even thought Harry could understand him.

As usual, Draco’s hand found its way into Harry’s hair, stroking in slow, tender caresses. _This_ was nice, he had to admit. Nobody other than Draco had ever done it; certainly not Aunt Petunia, and not even Ginny. Maybe he wouldn’t think of Isabella. Maybe he would just fall asleep like this again.

“I wish I could have done this when you were still here.”

What?

“If I had just _told_ you . . . maybe all of this would still have happened, but at least you’d have known, and I might have spared us both some nasty years.”

Known what? This was making no sense at all. What was Draco talking about? Harry had been about to concentrate on closing his eyes, but now he focused on Draco instead. He wasn’t sure why, since it did not really matter, but still, he found that he was somewhat interested. Maybe because it was so unexpected. Nothing unexpected happened these days, everything was the same.

“You know, at first I hated you,” Draco went on.

At first? To Harry, it had seemed as if that had more or less lasted until the very day they had ended up kidnapped.

“I hated you for, well, everything. Everything that you were and had in comparison to me. You were an Auror, I’d been shovelling horse manure and cleaning Muggle toilets. You had your friends, I had a dying mother and most of my friends were dead or in Azkaban, or struggling too much to keep up with anyone. Like me.”

His hand stilled in Harry’s hair, and Harry was glad about it. It made him comfortable and sleepy, but the last thing he wanted now was to sleep. This was the conversation he had been waiting for, the conversation he’d been trying to have for years. Only now that it was finally happening, he couldn’t respond. But at least, maybe, he’d get an explanation.

“And I had to come to you for help. I forced you, I know, but it still felt like accepting charity. From you, from _Potter_. The only person who used to hate me enough to curse me with Dark Magic – and that saved me by total accident. It’s ironic, really.” Draco chuckled unhappily.

“I thought I’d be miserable, chained to you for life like that. It was better than starving, and Mother was taken care of, but other than that . . . I had threatened to kill you if you didn’t go along, and you made your feelings quite clear as well. That evening after the ceremony, when you said you wished you’d ‘left me to sizzle along with Crabbe’.” Draco said it in a way that made Harry realise those were the exact words he had used. It sounded horrid. 

“You said you didn’t mean it like that, but I didn’t believe you. I would have felt like that if I had been in your place, and not only because we were fighting.”

Well, Harry hadn’t, not really, not after that moment of rage had been over. And although he’d thought about it since he had been injured, he simply couldn’t find it in himself. None of this would have happened if Draco had died in the Fiendfyre that day, but leaving him there would have been wrong. It was that simple.

“You meant it. All of it. That we should respect each other, get along. Being civil with me. Becoming friends with Mother. You had every reason to despise me, but you tried your damndest to be nice. You _were_ nice. Kind, even. Do you realise how rare that is? There are not many people like that out there, and I’m certainly not one of them. Mother used to say that you had a kind heart.”

His kind heart, there it was again. 

“She knew,” Draco said very softly. “That I forced you, she knew. We could never fool her. She never told me, of course, and you said she had no idea, but I had my suspicions in the end, and by now think I was right. I think she wanted me to believe that she couldn’t imagine I was capable of doing it. She always wanted to protect me. Always, even when she was dying and I wasn’t there half as much as I should have been.” He took his hand away from Harry’s hair and instead moved it to his right hand, slim flingers closing around it.

“You were there. You never told me, but Andromeda did – that you paid the Healers, that you visited with her when I was too drunk, that you made up excuses. You never said a word to her; you kept all of my . . . my drunken blunders to yourself. You protected her for me. _From_ me. And you tried to protect me from myself. When all I did was being an arsehole to you, you were still . . . kind.”

He leant down so Harry could see his face; there were tears in his eyes – and more, a look Harry had seen directed at him before, but not by Draco.

“I think . . . I think that’s one of the main reasons why I fell in love with you.”

Harry must be hallucinating. Or maybe he was asleep and dreaming, a bizarre dream his subconscious had cooked up for whatever inexplicable reason. This couldn’t be real.

“I watched you,” Draco whispered. “I watched you go about your life, and I realised you were nothing like what I’d thought you were. Or maybe it was that I had got it wrong and that I liked the things I thought I hated about you. I’m not quite certain. Oh, you were still annoying, but I liked that, too. I liked bickering with you. It was a bit like back at school, when everything wasn’t so difficult. It was . . . comforting, as if things were back to how they were supposed to be, in a way. I was no longer working illegal Muggle jobs trying to feed my sick mother; I was bickering with Harry Potter again. It made me feel safe. That sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

Not really all that silly. Harry had never seen it that way, but then, he hadn’t tried in vain for nine years to put the shards of his life back together, like Draco.

“The more I watched you, and the more you tried to make this work, the more I wanted for it to work as well. I think it would have if I hadn’t fallen for you. We could have become friends, eventually.”

Harry was stunned. Even if he’d been able to react he would have had no idea what to do or to say. Draco was being serious, he realised that now. But then why . . .

“I couldn’t tell you when I realised what had happened,” Draco went on as if to answer. “I was . . . too proud. Too stupid. I don’t know. All I knew was that I thought I couldn’t handle being rejected by you. To be pitied. Not by you. Not any more than you did already.”

Hadn’t he said something like that after they’d had sex that one time? That he didn’t want Harry’s pity? It was making sense now – everything was making sense.

“I knew there was no chance I’d get what I wanted, and I started hating you for making me love you. I wanted to move out – we didn’t have to live together. I could have come over for a night a month; it would have been enough for the bond, even without taking potions to stretch the time. But I couldn’t make myself stay away from you.” Draco ran his free hand through his own hair. “It was all such a mess. I loved you, and I hated you for it. I didn’t want to live alone, but I felt even lonelier with you there. And Mother was . . .” Draco was crying now, tears running down his cheeks, but he didn’t appear to notice it, or maybe he didn’t care. 

“Drinking was stupid, and I knew it. As was the sex. But it helped, at least in the beginning. Then it didn’t help so much anymore, but it was still better than facing the truth, facing you. And at some point it felt as if it was too late to even try and stop. And after Mother died . . .” He shook his head. “It made everything worse. I caved in and let you comfort me, and you were so . . .” Draco’s voice broke and he closed his eyes, drawing a few trembling breaths. 

Harry wished he could do something. Let him know that he understood, and that he didn’t pity him. Draco was – a dear friend. Harry wasn’t sure when it had happened, maybe only just now, but it was the truth.

After maybe half a minute, Draco opened his eyes again and put his hand on Harry’s cheek, apparently not caring at all that it was wet. “I love you,” he whispered as he leant forward and brushed a kiss on Harry’s forehead. “I just wish you’d have known.” He rested his forehead against Harry’s, and Harry could feel warm tears on his skin. Their noses were touching, their breath mingling. It was good, being so close. Comforting, even if it didn’t change anything, for either of them.

.-.-.-.-.

“She’s enumerating all the departments correctly, really?” Draco asked. “At two years old?”

“All of them. And she’s beginning with the different subsections now. Today it was the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee. She’s got no idea what she is talking about, of course, but she likes the long words. And she likes her father adoring her when she does it. He’s so proud, shows her off to everyone who wants to see it – and those who don’t as well.” Luna chuckled. “He even took her to work with him last week, and she loved it. Frederica never liked the Ministry much, but Adelaide was all smiles and big shiny eyes. She had everyone wrapped around her little finger within the hour.”

“That sounds lovely.” There was a strange, almost wistful tone in Draco’s voice, Harry thought. Was he thinking about the children he would never have?

It was evening, and he was in the living room with Draco and Luna, who had come to visit just on time to have supper with Draco, which was usually around seven. She had sat with Harry for a little while after that – Draco had done something else during that time – and talked to him about her life and her family. His friends often did it when they came, and this time, Harry had actually listened.

This last week, he had felt less inclination to live in his memories than during the previous months. Draco had given him more than enough to think about, and about two days after the confession in the garden, he’d realised that he was observing Draco as best as he could. With hindsight, and with the knowledge he possessed now, it was clear to him that Draco wasn’t simply doing this out of guilt. Nobody would. If he felt nothing but guilt and obligation, he would have hired nurses to help him with Harry, or have his care taken over completely. He wouldn’t do everything himself, there wouldn’t be all these soft words and caresses. Not like this. Harry had been too depressed, too absorbed with himself to think about it more deeply. 

Over on the couch, Draco and Luna had fallen silent; the only sound was the soft clatter of their teacups. When Luna was here, they often didn’t talk, but only sat together. She had the gift to make silence comfortable instead of awkward or boring; it was one of the things Harry liked about her. 

“Have you finally told Harry?” Luna asked in the end. “If not, I think you should. It’s been too long.”

“Told him what? What do you mean?”

“Draco.” Her voice was warm and very soft, and Harry could see before his inner eye how she must be reaching out right now, touching Draco’s arm or his hand. “Do you believe we’re all blind?”

“I don’t know what –”

“You love him,” Luna said. “You have for years, am I not right?”

There was no reply, and Harry asked himself who else might have noticed. Ginny maybe? After all, she had been suspecting that Draco was in love and trying to distract himself even before Narcissa’s death.

When Draco answered, Harry didn’t understand what he said, he was speaking too quietly. 

“That’s good. You’d been carrying that around with you for far too long.” 

“But it doesn’t make a difference, not really.”

“You had to get it off your chest, though. And would you like to hear what I believe? I believe that he can feel it, every time you speak to him or touch him. He doesn’t have to be able to think in the conventional fashion to know that much. It’s very silly to assume that there’s only one kind of consciousness.”

“That’s not what –”

“ _And_ I believe,” Luna went on, still soft but undeterred, “that he knew before as well. He wasn’t aware of it, but I’m sure that on a certain level, he did notice. It’s the Blood Bond, you see.”

“I don’t understand.” 

Draco sounded as confused as Harry felt. What about the bond? Were there things Harry hadn’t been told? Things that Hermione hadn’t known about? And not Draco either? 

“Think about it,” Luna said. “You forced him into the bond under threat of death and except for the first two years, you were quite horrible to him the majority of the time. Yet all he ever did was try to help you. With your mother, with your alcohol problem, with everything. Now, Harry is a kind soul, but he is not that kind of martyr. He isn’t a doormat.”

Back during that time, Harry hadn’t been so sure. At the height of Draco’s escapades, ‘doormat’ was precisely the term that had occasionally come to his mind, and he had been so frustrated with himself for his inability to stop caring what happened to Draco. 

“It was strange, yes. I know I kept asking myself why, and maybe I even wanted him to throw me out, make me live in my own place and only let me see him enough so the Blood Magic wouldn’t rebel. I remember thinking that he couldn’t possibly put up with all of it for much longer, never do anything beside argue with me, and if only I took it a little further . . .”

“Yes,” Luna agreed. “Most people would have thrown you out, and if you hadn’t been bonded, if he hadn’t sensed your feelings – that you loved him and how unhappy you were – then he would have done it as well.”

“But how –“

“There’s a rare gift when it comes to Blood Bonds. My grandparents had it, but most people don’t know that something like it exists. Some people who are bonded can connect in their minds. As I said, it’s rare, but it does happen. For some, it’s very faint: they sense their partner’s strong feelings without even being aware of it. Others do it consciously, like my grandparents. They considered themselves very blessed.” 

“I don’t understand,” Draco said. “I never felt anything from him.”

There was the sound of the china rattling as one of them handled it, maybe pouring another cup.

“There are cases in which it only goes one way. If one partner is rather empathetic, like Harry, and the other, well . . .”

“. . . is not, like me,” Draco finished for her. “I know myself. Empathy is not one of my strengths.”

“Yes. Usually, it only happens with partners who are a very good match, emotionally, but sometimes, when there is great pain or great need, it might happen like I suspect it did with you two.”

It sounded far-fetched to Harry, but then, what did he know? If her grandparents had truly possessed that kind of connection, maybe it was possible. But between him and Draco, could that be? Could he have known, somehow, subconsciously?

It was true that it had been strange just how much he had wanted to help Draco out. At the time, he hadn’t fully understood why, and he hadn’t wanted to think too deeply about it. He’d been the only person who _would_ do it, that had been reason enough, he had told himself. And no matter how much Draco insulted him: whenever Harry had seen him lie on the couch, passed out with a glass of Firewhiskey on the coffee table, on the floor, or still in his hand, whenever he’d seen him suffer through the aftermath of extramarital sex, whenever he’d seen him pained after a visit with Narcissa or simply looking at Harry, sometimes, with that strange, intense gaze Harry had chosen to interpret as hate . . . Maybe Luna was right. Maybe there had been _something_ , something so tiny it had never reached his consciousness. They would never know. But it would be nice if Draco could believe it, for his own sake.

“I don’t know,” Draco said. “All the things I’ve ever heard about mind connections are unpleasant. Legilimency, the Imperius Curse, Harry having been a Horcrux . . .”

“True, but this is the exception. I’m not making things up to make you feel better, Draco, if that is what you think.”

No, that wouldn’t be like Luna at all. She was kind and soft-spoken, but rather blunt, and it tended to shock people who didn’t know her too well.

“What my grandparents had was real, and if you want, I can give you a book about it. It even mentions some cases of telepathy between bond partners, though that is something that apparently happens once in a century.”

Wait. _Telepathy_?

Harry had been growing slightly sleepy over the course of their conversation, though he had tried to fight it, but now all thoughts of sleep were gone. He didn’t pay attention to what else they said; his mind was filled with only one thought: Telepathy. It could occur between bond partners. Harry _had_ a bond partner. And what had Luna said, if there was great need . . . If Harry wasn’t in great need, he had no idea who else would be.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was what could save him! If he could speak to Draco in his mind, Draco would know that he was conscious, and then everyone else would know as well. He might not be able to move or talk aloud ever again, but maybe he could still learn to communicate with his friends.

Luna had also said it occurred maybe once in a century, and it was by no means clear that anything like what she had suggested had actually taken place between them, but he couldn’t let himself be deterred by doubts or odds. This might be the only chance he would ever get, the only way he could ever try to communicate again.

He had to choose to believe that it was true, if he wanted to hope. That he and Draco had this kind of connection. That he’d always felt something from Draco, that it was the explanation for why he had tried so hard, and maybe also for the fact that even when Draco had consisted of nothing more than a sad voice and gentle hands at St. Mungo’s, Harry had wanted so badly to reach out to him.

This was it, then, he thought. This was what he would do. He would spend the next months, maybe years, trying to somehow reach Draco. Trying to learn telepathy. He had no idea how, and he wished Luna would bring that book, that Draco would read it, talk about it with Harry. It wouldn’t happen, of course, since Draco had no reason to do it, and all of this was a desperate idea, a straw to hold on to while you were drowning, Harry knew it perfectly well. But it was his only hope, and he would find a way. He had to.

.-.-.-.-.

“I’m not certain that this was one of my more intelligent ideas,” Draco said. He sounded nervous, and Harry would have smiled if he could have, and told him to calm down.

‘They’re not going to eat you alive, I promise,’ he thought. ‘Not even Ron.’

Draco sighed deeply next to him, then he started pacing back and forth in front of the living room fireplace. They were waiting for Mr Weasley, who would Apparate Harry to the Burrow while Draco, who couldn’t Apparate, would Floo there.

“Christmas Day with the entire Weasley family. What was I thinking?”

‘That maybe our friends were right about needing to get out once in a while?’

Especially Hermione and Luna had gently but persistently suggested that it would be a good idea if Draco started to do something other than stay at home with Harry. It would only depress him and give him bad ideas, they had said, and Harry agreed. It couldn’t be healthy to stay home every day, alone but for somebody you were convinced couldn’t even hear you, with only the occasional visit by friends.

By now, Harry didn’t want to be back in St. Mungo’s anymore. It would be better by far if he and Draco spent as much time together as possible, so that he could consistently try to reach out to him with his mind. For the last few months, he’d done precisely that. If Luna was right and he’d been subconsciously picking up on Draco’s feelings all along, then he figured that this might be the first thing to start with: deepen the empathetic connection, try and get in tune with Draco’s feelings on a more conscious level. It seemed logical to him that telepathy was taking things a huge step further and might work only if their connection was working on a more basic level already.

So whenever he felt up to it, he would now concentrate, try to focus on Draco’s presence, see if he could sense anything coming from him. On top of that, he had taken to answering to Draco’s remarks and questions in his mind as he would have if he could speak. He’d figured that acting as naturally as he could – under the circumstances – might be the best approach for the bond to deepen, like it would between a couple who could interact.

It was hard, harder than he had first thought when he had made the decision. Life hadn’t become any different, his condition was still the same, and he despised every moment of it, everything Draco had to do for him because he couldn’t. The temptation to simply give up, to slip back into living in memories and not care about what was going on in reality was still strong, and sometimes, he gave in for a day or two. About a month ago, it had been an entire week. There were still many moments, whole days, when he wished he wouldn’t have survived. But so far, he’d managed to pull out of it every time again.

Part of it was the determination that he would manage to communicate again, but there was something else. 

Andromeda had stopped by with Teddy shortly before he had to go back to Hogwarts for his sixth year. While she and Draco had been busy inside, Teddy had sat down next to Harry, who’d been in the garden on his sunbed. He’d told Harry about the trip to France he and Andromeda had made, where they had visited the town Remus’s ancestors had left for England a few hundred years ago.

“There were Lupins on the Wizarding graveyard there, and the mayor of the Wizarding community showed us the old records of the family; they’ve thrown nothing away. It was cool to learn more about them,” he’d said.

For a while, he’d talked about Quidditch – he was one of the Beaters on the Hufflepuff team, but he hoped he could become Keeper in the next school-year, now that the old Keeper had left Hogwarts.

In the end, though, he’d leant in closer so that Harry could see part of his face, and lowered his voice.

“There’s a new girl in my house. Her name is Amita. She and her parents moved here from India just after Easter. She’s a little hard to understand sometimes – her accent is really thick. Some of the others make fun of her because of that, but I like it. I like, well, everything about her. She’s smart, and she’s really funny. And beautiful. Her hair is amazing, it looks like black silk, and she’s got these huge black eyes.”

He sounded more than a little smitten, Harry had noticed. 

“I . . . uh, I wrote a poem for her. It’s long and pretty corny. Nobody knows but you, and I don’t think I can show it to her, but I thought I could ask her to go to Hogsmeade with me. You’d ask her if you were me, right?”

Definitely yes.

“I think you would. I only have to find the right moment, when the other girls aren’t there. Girls in herds are frightening.”

After that, Teddy had gone on a little longer about her: what she’d told him about India, how she smiled at him every morning at breakfast, and that he hadn’t talked to anybody else about it yet.

Slowly, as the months went by, there had been other incidents like it. When Harry’s friends visited, they would tell him their worries and their secrets, things they hadn’t yet told others – or never did. 

Luna shared her worry about Percy with him. The higher ranks of Ministry employees around Minister Hollingberry were under increasing pressure as he became more and more erratic. He should have been forced to step down months ago, but there were still those who supported him fiercely, and they were influential. The days when Percy didn’t come home stressed and unhappy had become few and far between.

One evening when Neville and Ginny had been visiting and Ginny had been cooking supper with Draco, Neville had told Harry about a new potion that had been developed and that might be able to help his parents to some degree.

“I don’t want to hope for anything,” he’d said, “so I haven’t told Ginny. It’s as if it became too real if I did. I will, eventually, but not yet.”

And there had been that day when Hermione, who’d stayed with him as usual while Draco was at his appointment with his sobriety counsellor, had sat down right next to Harry on the bed instead of the couch or the armchair on the other side of the bed as usual. She hadn’t said anything for a few minutes, then she had lain down next to him, with her head lightly leaning against his shoulder.

“I’d like to try again for a baby,” she had whispered. “It’s been ten years, and I really do want children. But Ron is against it. He’s frightened of losing me. We’ve talked about it so often for the last six months, we’ve been to Healers together, and they say it’s perfectly safe. But he . . . can’t. He says he can’t risk losing me as well.”

She’d sighed deeply. “I don’t want to tell anyone else, I don’t want them to try and convince him. It would be too hard on him. But I would have told you anyway.”

Harry had wished he could speak to her, maybe hold her for a while. It must be terribly hard. She had told him about it all one evening some years ago over a bottle of butterbeer, about how she had felt during the months at St. Mungo’s and the year after that, when Ron had taken unpaid leave to be there for her at home. About how frightened she was to lose another baby. 

But even so, she had seemed to find some comfort in confiding in him. After she had been silent for a while, with Harry listening to the crackle of the fire and her first shaky but then slowly calming breathing, she’d lifted herself and looked him in the eyes with a small smile. “I love you, Harry, we both do. You’re still our best friend; that will never change.”

He hadn’t been entirely convinced of that last part, especially since Ron had been staying away for so long, but he’d found that he wanted to believe her.

Now the Fireplace roared into life, and somebody stepped out of the green flames. It must be Mr Weasley.

“Draco, Harry, Happy Christmas!” he said somewhat breathlessly. “I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late, but the Ministry called me in on an emergency last evening. Some jokester thought it would be a good idea to go and charm hundreds of Christmas trees in Camden so they’d run around on the streets and scare the Muggles. We’ve been working on it all night, the whole department was in uproar.”

“Do you know who did it?” Draco asked.

“We have no idea. There aren’t any hints, and I doubt we’ll find anything. It’s always the same around Christmas: somebody has to do something like this. Anyway,” he said and came over to Harry, touching his shoulder. “It’s good to see you both. Are you ready to go?”

“Actually, I’m feeling a little as if I’m about to enter the lion’s den.”

“Nonsense, we’re all happy to have you. And Molly is cooking up a huge Christmas dinner – I doubt anybody will want to try a bite of Malfoy.”

That made Draco laugh. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He needn’t have worried, Harry thought a few hours later, when his wheelchair was standing in a corner of the kitchen from where he could see a good part of the room. Everyone had been welcoming, from what Harry had been able to make out, and even Ron had been entirely civil so far.

Now Draco, together with Fleur and George, was helping Molly in the kitchen, wearing a green knitted jumper, of which he’d whispered to Harry in an unobserved moment that it was the loveliest hideous gift he had ever received. 

Harry himself was simply glad that he was here. Only now did he realise how much he had missed the Burrow and the entire family – them visiting him one by one hadn’t been the same. It was full and loud, with everyone talking and laughing, and the children were running in and out of the kitchen frequently, trying to steal biscuits and meatballs and sticking their fingers into the huge bowl of custard. Bill and Fleur’s son Louis and his favourite cousin, George and Angelina’s daughter Roxanne, were the ringleaders, and Fleur as well as George were close to despairing of their children before Molly ordered all children outside to play in the snow, leaving no room for protest. 

When all preparations had been made and everyone had taken a light lunch, Arthur suggested an extended walk while Harry would have his afternoon nap.

“You go with them,” Ginny told Draco. “I’m staying here. You came to do something other than sitting at home, after all.”

They had laid Harry on the large living room couch, with a blanket over him and a comfortable pillow under his head, and when everyone was gone, Ginny sat down next to him. She took off his glasses and tucked the blanket a little closer around him.

“You know, I stayed behind with you on purpose. I need to tell you something,” she said. “I’ll tell Neville later tonight, but I wanted you to be the first, I’m not sure why.” He heard her exhale deeply. “I’m pregnant, Harry. I found out only the day before yesterday. I’m three weeks along.”

Pregnant. Harry felt a sharp pang of jealousy as the image of Ginny and Neville holding a newborn baby formed before his inner eye, smiling happily at the infant and at each other. All the times when he and Ginny had talked about children . . . But the feeling ebbed away again, leaving only a dull ache behind. He wasn’t jealous of Neville, not really. It was more about what they had and he never would. But then, he couldn’t afford to think like this – it would only throw him back and depress him. And the two deserved every kind of happiness.

Ginny’s hand was now on his right arm while she wiped his mouth and chin with the other hand. “We didn’t think we would have children for another year or so; I was on extremely strong contraception potions to make absolutely certain I wouldn’t get pregnant. I didn’t want it to interfere with Quidditch. But I stopped taking them around two months ago. The Healers said it would take four at the very least for it to be possible, most likely half a year or even a bit longer. But it seems this baby really wanted to be here.” She chuckled softly. “I can’t wait to tell Neville; it’s the perfect Christmas gift.”

It certainly was. Neville would be beyond happy.

“We talked about names, you know. Even before you were injured, we’d thought of naming our first child after you. Harry Frank or Harriet Alice; that sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

It did. There was a thick lump in Harry’s throat. He liked the idea of Ginny’s kid having his name, the idea that he was still so important to her, and to Neville.

“We’d also wanted to ask you to be his or her godfather. You’re Teddy’s already, but we didn’t think you’d mind. Now we can’t ask you officially anymore, but we’d like to think of you as the godfather nonetheless. And I thought that if Neville agrees, maybe we could ask Draco too. He’s . . . well, difficult at times, but he’s trying so hard, with you and with us. I don’t think Neville will be against it. He’ll be part of our family, and you will too, like you promised me when you got married, remember?”

Ginny was stroking up and down his arm slowly. A deep, heavy warmth settled in Harry’s stomach and tears began trickling down his cheeks. After a few moments, Ginny’s hand appeared with a handkerchief and gently wiped them away for as long as it lasted. His eyes sometimes watered for no apparent reason, and his friends had got used to it quickly.

“I’d like to imagine this was because you somehow still understand what I told you,” she whispered. “Luna says you do in a way, that you know we love you. I think she’s right.”

Yes, Harry knew, he had realised it over the last few months, with every time one of them had come to him to talk, to touch him, let him participate in their lives as he had before. But it was only now that he truly understood that it wouldn’t change. Ten years from now, he had imagined, they would all have moved on with their lives; those who’d become close with Draco would see Harry by necessity, but they wouldn’t see their friend, the person he’d been, in him anymore. Only an empty body, like Ron had said. But they more and more convinced him that it wouldn’t be like that.

It was then that the door opened with a bang and somebody stormed into the room.

Ginny looked up abruptly. “Where are the others? What happened?”

“Nothing!” It was Ron, and he sounded more than only a little upset.

“Right, because you’d storm in here and slam the door as if you wanted to break it for no reason at all.” She got up and disappeared from Harry’s sight. There were soft murmurs he couldn’t understand, and some angry hissing on Ron’s part.

“Why can’t she stop badgering me already?” he finally growled. He sounded close to tears. “I knew this would happen, I knew it! It’s why I didn’t want to come. I tried to explain it to her so often, but she won’t listen, not even to Hermione!”

Ginny said something unintelligible again.

“But that’s not true, and she won’t understand it,” Ron said, irritation clear in his voice. “I could deal with him being paralysed and in a wheelchair like Cousin Adela. I could deal with him being brain damaged and having to play with him like a kid. That would be hard, but he’d still be Harry. But he’s not! He won’t notice if I talk to him or if I’m even here.”

“We can’t know that. The Healers said they don’t know everything either, and maybe he can feel –” 

“Just stop it! You start sounding like Mum. I’m so sick of this! Why can’t you understand that I’m not –”

“I do,” Ginny interrupted him softly. “Believe me, I do. It’s still so hard every time I see him, but I have to. Just like you can’t. Just like Draco feels he has to take care of him.”

There was a noise that sounded like a mixture of a sob and a frustrated groan, then Ron muttered something.

“No, don’t leave,” Ginny said. “Go upstairs for a while, calm down. Try to have a nap. I’ll talk to Dad, maybe she’ll listen to him.”

Ron again muttered an answer, the door opened and closed again, and he was gone. Shortly after, Harry felt the couch move as Ginny sat down with him again.

“You wouldn’t be mad with him, would you?” she asked. 

Harry wasn’t so certain. It hurt that Ron flat out refused to have him in his life, unlike all the others. But on the other hand, if their places were swapped, would Harry do the same? He couldn’t imagine seeing his best friend like this – not Ron, who was like his brother. And hadn’t Ron said the same about him? 

“You’d understand,” Ginny whispered. “He loves you too much to be able to even look at you like this. He wants to be there, Hermione told me, and he hates himself for the fact that he can’t. Mum shouldn’t push him, it’s not fair. Everyone grieves differently.”

She was right, of course she was. But it was one more thing he’d have to be patient and wait for, one more thing completely out of his control, and he hated it. Brooding over it wouldn’t do any good, though, and he was growing more and more tired. He needed his nap. Slowly, his eyes fluttered shut, and when Ginny picked up the soothing strokes on his arm again, he quickly fell asleep.

In the evening, Harry was even gladder that they had come, even though he’d once again got strawberry-vomit potion while everyone else could enjoy a delicious Christmas dinner. Like in the morning when it had been prepared, the smell alone made his mouth water. He was missing real food badly. But he loved the atmosphere: the living room where a huge table had been set was lit by dozens of candles, with the ornaments on the Christmas tree shimmering and glittering; there was once again laughter and animated talking, and the warmth was coming not only from the fireplace, but from the people.

Harry’s wheelchair was set up at the table right next to Draco, and while he wasn’t able to see him, but looked at Angelina and George on the opposite side of the table, he heard almost every word he exchanged. Draco wasn’t as lively as others and barely laughed, but Harry was certain that he was enjoying himself. As he focused only on him and blended out everything else, like he tried several times every day, he suddenly felt a faint emotional presence. Right now, Draco was answering somebody’s question, and Harry felt a small wave of warmth and . . . was that gratitude? Yes, he was almost certain. 

He had never managed to sense anything like this before, and it made his head buzz with excitement. It was true, it really was true; Luna had not been mistaken! He and Draco had a connection! If he could deepen and hone it, maybe he could master telepathy one day. This was the best Christmas gift he could have imagined.

Concentrating like this tired him out and made his head ache, however, and he soon let go of the connection. He dozed off for a while without noticing, and when he woke up again, he found that he was standing close to the Christmas tree. Dinner was over, most of the adults were still at the table, sitting and talking over non-alcoholic beverages – he’d heard Hermione promise to Draco that nobody would mind having no alcohol there when she had tried to convince him to come.

Louis and Dominique as well as Fred and Roxanne were sitting on the floor at the periphery of Harry’s vision; they were trying to assemble something, from what he could tell, and failing. After many exclamations of “Not like this!”, “It’s going _there_!” and “Give me that, ninny!”, Ron – who hadn’t left after all – came over and sat down with them on the carpet. 

Harry watched them for a while: four kids grouped around Ron, handing him parts of whatever it was they were building, with him showing and explaining patiently. He really should have own children. Finally, though, his head slowly sunk forward as it did sometimes, with his chin resting on his chest, and he couldn’t see them anymore. 

“Uncle Harry?”

The voice stirred him from his thoughts, and now a small girl in a dark green dress appeared in front of him from the right side of the wheelchair. Frederica. Harry knew that she was five now, but she looked closer to three – she had always been tiny.

He had worried how she might react; all of her cousins were older and had taken his presence rather well, and Adelaide was still too small to care or even remember. So far, Frederica hadn’t seen much of him, though, since her family had only arrived in the late afternoon, shortly before dinner. Percy had brought her to Harry briefly, and beside “Hi, Uncle Harry,” she hadn’t said anything before he had led her away again.

Now she was looking at him earnestly from round grey eyes just like her mother’s, as if she was trying to figure out something. Then, without warning and to Harry’s utter surprise, she climbed over his legs right onto his lap, never taking her eyes away from his face.

A few moments passed before she reached out and grasped the bib, wiping the drool from his chin. Harry wasn’t sure if he felt more touched or more mortified.

“When Adelaide got her teeth, she was drooling too, all the time,” she told him in her soft little-girl voice. “Mum said she couldn’t help it. You can’t help it either, right? Because you had that bad accident. Mum said it made something in your brain not work right anymore.”

She watched him appraisingly for another few moments, then she stretched and kissed his cheek, like she had always done before when she had seen him. Harry was surprised that she still remembered him at all – it had been almost two years, a long time for a small child like her.

“I missed you, Uncle Harry. I wanted to visit you at the hospital, and later when you were home, but Dad said no. He was worried you’d frighten me, I heard him talk about that to Mum. But I’m not scared. You’re still Uncle Harry.” She snuggled against him, her head with the red-blond curls coming to rest on his chest, her small fingers gently closing around his left fist. She was light enough so that her weight didn’t bother him. 

“I missed you,” she repeated before she fell silent. Her little body was warm, and Harry felt her regular breathing against him. He had missed her as well.

He didn’t know how much time went by like this, but at some point the children got up and rushed off to play with their now completely assembled toys, and Ron joined the other adults again.

“I’ll ask Dad if you can come visit us again now,” Frederica murmured shortly after. “I don’t care if you can’t move or talk. I still like you, and I know you still like me.” She yawned sleepily and wriggled slightly, snuggling in closer. “I like Draco too, he’s nice. And tonight he’s happy, like you. I’m happy too.” Her voice had become fainter with every word and was barely audible. “. . . love you, ‘ncle ‘arry,” she mumbled. Then there was nothing from her anymore, and Harry suspected that she was asleep.

Confused and not knowing what to think, he closed his eyes as well. How could she be so certain that he was happy? She might be very perceptive and have watched Draco, but Harry? He couldn’t come up with an explanation.

“There she is,” Luna’s voice suddenly said somewhere close to him. “See, you needn’t have worried. Nothing has changed between them.”

“Seems I was wrong. I probably should have known. She’s so much like you,” Percy said. Harry could hear the fondness in his voice. 

“Come, let me take her,” Luna said. “I’ll put her to bed with Adelaide in your old room.”

The warm little weight was lifted from Harry’s lap. He was a bit sad to have her leave, but he hoped that now he could see her every once in a while.

“Harry?” It was Percy, and Harry felt a hand on his shoulder. “I just . . . Oh, Merlin, I feel silly. But I wanted to say that I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept her away. I suppose you’ll have a lap full of little girl rather often in the near future.” He squeezed slightly before he let go again. “I know we’ve never been very close, but it’s good to have you in the family. Happy Christmas.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

“ _Even now, after they had spent ten days in the wild, Morland looked as handsome to her as ever. Not the slick, combed beauty that the Count had been so proud of, but handsome in a rugged, exciting way. Without his wand, he hadn’t been able to spell either of them clean, or shave, and she loved his unruly hair and the growing beard. Together with his broad shoulders and chest, they made him look strong and manly, a man who could protect her from anything._ ”

‘Can you even hear yourself?’ Harry thought. ‘What are you, a fourteen-year-old teenager swooning over his crush?’

Draco was swooning over the book’s male protagonist, there was no doubt about it. Harry heard it in his voice, and he also felt it clearly through the emotional link. 

“ _And he had protected her,_ ” Draco went on, “ _had risked his status and his life to free her. Now that they were at his castle and in safety, though, she was worried of what would happen next. She had no standing, no money, nothing to offer him but herself. Could she be enough for a man like him?_

_He, too, seemed to be troubled, for a storm of emotion was swirling in his smoky grey eyes as he stared at her intently. At this moment, she wished for nothing more than that he would give up his adamant chivalry and finally, finally kiss her._

_‘Rosalind . . .’_

_‘Yes . . .’_

_This one word was all that it took: he reached out for her, pulling her close, and her heart sang with joy. Almost a year after they had first laid eyes on each other, after she had known that he was the one who would save her from the Count’s dreadful clutches, she was where she belonged: in his strong arms, with his lips upon hers in the sweetest kiss._

_When it was over, Rosalind pressed herself closer against him, her head resting on his chest._

_‘Never leave me,’ she whispered._

_‘Never,’ he agreed.”_

Draco stopped reading and sighed happily. Harry mentally rolled his eyes. He’d been home with Draco for almost three years now, he’d listened to dozens of romance novels like this, and he still didn’t get the fascination. At least there had been no ‘full, engorged manhood’ and other ridiculous descriptions involved. Judging from this last chapter, that would probably come in the next one.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Draco said. “Let’s go to bed.”

Thank Merlin, no more Morland and Rosalind for today. They made Draco happy, and Harry was all for that, but there was only so much bad writing he could take in a day.

Some time later, he was settled in bed with his eyes closed, and Draco was sitting next to him, stroking his hair. He was doing it every evening for a few minutes, and Harry had come to appreciate it very much, more so now that he could feel what Draco was feeling. Over the last two years, since their first Christmas together, he had managed to deepen their empathic connection. By now, concentrating on it was easy and no longer exhausting.

Right now, there was a rush of love and care from Draco towards Harry, mixed with a sadness he had learnt to recognise well. It was always there, sometimes pushed to the background when they were surrounded by friends, sometimes, like now, more prominent. Harry hated it almost as much as he hated his own still recurring feelings of despair and hopelessness. 

“Good night, Harry.” Draco ran his fingers through Harry’s hair one last time, then he got up and left. 

Harry wished he would have stayed, slept right next to him. It was much easier to keep up their connection when Draco was in the same room, and it was comforting to know him close and fall asleep like that. These last weeks, he had woken up in the middle of the night a few times with a lingering feeling of terror and his chest constricted so tightly that he could barely breathe. He would lie in the dark, gasping for air, praying that it would stop. It had happened more and more often and made him frightened to fall asleep. Draco being here with him would help, he was certain. There was nothing he could do about it, though, and eventually, he fell into a somewhat uneasy sleep.

When Harry came to, he didn’t know where he was or what was happening. It was dark around him, he was shaking with fear and it hurt to breathe, so much so that his only thought was that he would suffocate. Vaguely, he registered that somebody was screaming at the top of his lungs, hoarse screams full of terror, but he couldn’t care who it was, or why. There was something touching him all of a sudden, holding him tightly, and he tensed, his chest getting even tighter. He tried to move, pull away, but he couldn’t – he was trapped. 

This was it, he thought dimly. He couldn’t breathe, he was dying. They’d managed to do it this time. 

He didn’t know for how long it went on, but it seemed to be endless, until he could only wish that he’d be dead quickly. In the end, though, bit by bit, the chain around his chest loosened and breathing got easier, air filling his lungs in deep, shuddering gasps. Eventually, as he could focus on other things, he realised that he was being held against a warm body and rocked slowly from side to side. The screams had died down; now there were only pained moans and a soft voice singing a low, soothing tune. 

“ . . . woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, they all are belonging, dear . . .”

A shudder ran though him, the moans getting louder again, and only now did he realise that it was him who was making these noises and who had been screaming. He tried to press closer against the person holding him, but found that he couldn’t, so instead, he tried to concentrate on the voice instead of the fear and his still aching chest.

“Oh, fear not the bugle, tho' loudly it blows, it calls but the warders that guard thy repose; their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. Oh, hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight . . .”

The words were strange, but it didn’t matter; what mattered was that the voice that sang them – _Draco_ – was soft and comforting, and when he instinctively reached out with his mind, he found a presence full of warmth and love directed at him. Harry let the emotions wash over him, and together with the song and the firm embrace, after a while they calmed him completely. Whatever had terrified him in his sleep was fading away; now there was only safety, and Draco.

Harry had fallen silent, and some time later, Draco stopped singing as well and sat still.

“Better now?” he whispered gently. “You scared me there. You’ve never made a sound before, and now this.”

Harry hadn’t even realised that before now. He had been screaming due to whatever nightmare he’d had, but did this mean that he could do it voluntarily? He tried to make a sound, any sound – but nothing would come, as usual. 

“Sounds almost as if you had a nightmare,” Draco said. He sounded shaken, more than Harry would have expected. “The way you screamed . . . it was the same as when . . . when they had us. When they tortured you.” He breathed shakily. “The Healers said you might somehow remember what happened. Not consciously, but on some other level. I always hoped you wouldn’t, nothing of it.”

Had it been that? Had he dreamt of what their captors had done to him? Harry didn’t know, but it made sense, and the idea made him want to curl up against Draco much closer, make sure he didn’t leave. He didn’t want to remember, and who was to say that now, he wouldn’t? Maybe waking up at night from nightmares he couldn’t recall was only the beginning.

“Harry. Shhh.” There was a soft kiss on his temple. “You are safe now, they can’t hurt you anymore. I’m here, I promise it’s all right.”

Harry was trembling again, trying to focus only on Draco’s murmured reassurances. Vague memories hovered at the edge of his mind, of pain, of torture. Darkness, the fear of never knowing when they’d come next, what they would do to him. Gentle hands petting his hair while he was sobbing with pain, and a voice, Draco’s voice, telling him that he would be all right. They’d come, they would save them, the Aurors were soon going to be here. Weasley, Ron would find a way. 

There was another frightened moan, and another, and Draco began singing again. He’d sung the song back then as well, Harry remembered, and he had clung to Draco, had tried to somehow let it make him forget where they were, at least for a little while. Now it reassured him of where they were: home and safe.

“. . . hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight, oh, hush thee, my baby, so bonnie, so bright.”

Draco stopped singing again, and Harry, too, had calmed down for the second time. He was home and safe now, in his own bed, and those who’d hurt him were gone forever, locked up in Azkaban. He had to remember that. He was safe.

“You like it as much as I do, don’t you?” Draco said softly. “Mother used to sing this to me every night when I was small. I felt too big for it when I was seven and told her to stop. But during the war . . .” His hand found its way into Harry’s hair.

“While the Dark Lord was at the Manor, I couldn’t fall asleep without it. Mother would ward my room so we wouldn’t get caught, and she’d sit with me and sing until I fell asleep. And even later, when she was sick already and I felt as if I couldn’t go on one more day, trying to find another secret Muggle job . . .” He trailed off, and they sat in silence. Harry wished he could do something against the grief he felt from Draco – for Narcissa, for Harry, for how everything had turned out.

‘I like it,’ he thought, trying to send the words through the link. ‘It’s lovely.’

No reaction from Draco. There had never been one, so far. Harry had been trying to consciously send him thoughts for months now, but it hadn’t even come close to elicit any kind of response. Draco couldn’t feel anything from him, much less hear him. If it would ever work, it would take more time than he had hoped in the beginning. 

Harry had no idea for how long they’d been sitting like this when Draco pulled back his hand and carefully laid him down again.

‘Don’t go!’ Harry didn’t want to sleep again, and definitely not alone.

“It’s almost six in the morning,” Draco said. “I think we should get up. I’m not sure you can sleep anymore, and I know I can’t. And we’ve got to be at Percy and Luna’s at ten, remember? Frederica wouldn’t take you being late for her birthday very well.”

Harry hadn’t remembered before now that today was Saturday and Frederica’s seventh birthday. She had insisted that she wanted to celebrate with her friends tomorrow and only wanted her grandparents and Harry and Draco to come over today.

By now, when he wasn’t in one of the short periods of depression which still resurfaced now and then, it was almost beyond doubt for him that his friends wouldn’t lose interest in him. He and Draco had been invited to many birthdays, picnics, and family outings. In June of last year, Neville and Ginny had married, and of course, Harry and Draco had been there. Ginny had looked radiant at six months along, with long flowing hair and a white lace dress and veil, and Neville had barely been able to look anywhere else but at her whenever Harry had seen them. Ginny had insisted that Harry be in nearly every picture that was taken, except for the ones on which she was alone with Neville.

Three months later, she’d given birth to a boy they had named Harry Frank Longbottom, and as she had told him on Christmas, Draco had become the official godfather and Harry the second, unofficial one. At first, Draco had thought they wanted to make fun of him and had got angry, but he’d soon realised that they meant it. He’d become completely infatuated with his godson and would play with him whenever they were there. At thirteen months old, little Harry could say ‘Mummy’, ‘Daddy’, ‘ball’, and ‘Draco’.

“All right,” Draco said now, “I think it’s a bath instead of a spell today. You’re still all tense and shaky.”

‘A bath sounds good,’ Harry thought in reply. 

Some months ago, Hermione had suggested it in the place of cleaning spells. As silly as it had been – after all, Draco saw him naked every day – in the beginning, it had made him feel somewhat uncomfortable. But he’d soon got used to it. There had never been any feelings of unwillingness or disgust from Draco, as far as he could tell through the link, only care and concern, and the hope of doing everything right, doing something that would make Harry feel good in some fashion. Having this kind of connection was helping, Harry had found, to cope with Draco doing everything for him. He still hated it, but at least now he had proof that it was something Draco truly wanted to do.

A few minutes later, he was lying in the inflatable contraption Draco had bought for washing him in bed – another practical Muggle invention, as he had remarked when using it first. The warm water was nice, as was the slow, gentle massage of his tight muscles with the flannel, and eventually Harry felt himself relax. 

“That’s better. Now let’s see if we can open your hands. Yes, just like that . . .”

Draco kept talking softly, and Harry closed his eyes with a sigh. This was nice. It didn’t take long until he dozed off again.

.-.-.-.-.

“Happy Birthday! Welcome to the club of forty and over.”

Draco smiled weakly as Hermione hugged him – they were standing on the patio directly in front of the wheelchair, so Harry was able to see them.

“I don’t feel much different. Maybe a bit worse for the wear.”

“You do look tired,” Hermione said softly as she pulled away from him. “Have you two slept through one night this last week?”

They hadn’t, Harry thought sadly, and it was as hard on Draco as it was on him. It had been over three and a half years since he’d had the first nightmare, and since then, they had never stopped again, only becoming worse. There were periods when he had one or two a week, but there were also those times when they came every night, and more than just once. These last few weeks, Draco had barely got any sleep. Napping during the day when Harry was sleeping as well, and the one night a week that Hermione and sometimes Luna would help him out weren’t enough to make up for it.

Draco shook his head. “It’s been two weeks, since you were last here for the night.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, but he shook his head again.

“You couldn’t help getting the flu, and neither could Luna. It’s been going around lately. I’m just glad Harry didn’t catch it.”

“Yes, that one time last year was bad enough. Now here, I’ve got something for you.”

She handed Draco something blue, and he unwrapped it, revealing a book – no doubt a romance novel.

“ _The Veela With the Heart of Stone_ by Stefania Schwafelhans,” Draco read. “I don’t think I have ever heard of her.”

“It’s a translation from German. It came out just a month ago. I was trying to find something you didn’t know already, and that is rather hopeless with the English ones. You’ve read them all. It’s a wonder you can still bear to look at me,” Hermione teased gently. “With all the horrors those terrible Muggles and Muggle-borns inflict on your heroes.”

“Yes, do make fun of my plebeian tastes,” Draco complained. “Just so you know, in the last one, the Muggle turned out to be the better choice, actually. There was this twist in the last third where he had to save her from the Potions Master who’d been lying to her all along. It was . . . well, not what I expected, but still good.”

“I see there is hope for you yet,” Hermione said.

“Don’t be so certain. Now, Theo and Amalia just came, I’ve got to go to them for a while. You know he still feels uncomfortable around everyone.”

He meant Theodore Hargrove, formerly Theodore Nott, who had reconnected with Draco only a year ago. He’d never taken the Dark Mark, but had been punished and shunned along with his parents. When he and Draco had caught up on each other’s lives, Harry had learnt that after he and his girlfriend Pansy had finished their five-year-sentence at Azkaban for trying to escape from England, she had made another attempt immediately, but he hadn’t wanted to go with her. 

Instead, he had eked out a living on constantly changing illegal Muggle jobs, like many, until three years ago, he’d found work at a small magical home-decorating business. The owner had taken pity on him and given him a chance to work on probation. He had been more than lucky: they had fallen in love and had formed a Blood Bond only a few months before he’d contacted Draco again.

Theo and his wife, whose name he had taken to get rid of his own, had been visiting a few times since then and had met some of Harry and Draco’s friends, but Harry could imagine that he’d still feel uncomfortable among them, considering his past. It had taken Draco years as well to build these friendships.

For a while, Harry watched the guests of the birthday party and listened to them greet him and tell him little anecdotes about the last weeks. There were Andromeda and Teddy, who was 22 now and on the verge of becoming a flying instructor. There was Hermione, who’d come alone, unsurprisingly – Ron still avoided to see Harry if at all possible, much to Harry’s dismay. Neville and Ginny were taking turns watching Harry Frank, three-year-old Lucille Alice, and baby Robert. Harry Frank escaped them for some time, running around with Adelaide throwing grass at the party guests and giggling until Percy made them stop it.

Ten-year-old Frederica sat with Harry for surely half an hour, holding his hand and talking about anything and everything, as she always did. Her Pygmy Puff, whom she had named Hubert for reasons beyond anybody’s comprehension, sat on Harry’s lap during that time, a purring lavender ball of fur.

“I need to go play with Adelaide now,” she said in the end. “I promised I’d show her the house-elf heads up in the attic, and that portrait of Uncle Draco’s great-aunt Walburga. I told her it’s too spooky for her, but she won’t stop pestering me.”

Harry shuddered as he thought of the heads; he still had vivid memories of seeing Kreacher’s stuffed head for the first time at Mr Kilgore’s shop when he’d come to take it home. It had been staring at him from lifeless artificial eyes, but somehow, he still had expected it to speak at any moment. He’d wrapped it into a blanket and not looked at it again until it had been mounted on the wall in the attic next to the head of Kreacher’s mother.

Frederica sauntered off with Hubert to find Adelaide after kissing Harry’s cheek, and he focused on Neville and Luna, who were sitting close by at the table and eating cake. Sometimes, he still felt a bit guilty for listening in on everybody’s conversations, but then, those were all things they wouldn’t hide from him, and he couldn’t spend the majority of the time they were around him trying not to hear what was said. It would be silly. 

“How is Percy?” Neville had asked right now. “I can’t imagine how stressful it must be to try and build up the Ministry again after the Hollingberry Scandal. Ron tells me that they still haven’t managed to get everything running again, even after almost a year.”

“He’s working insane hours,” Luna agreed. “He barely sleeps more than five hours a night, and he often goes in for the morning on weekends. But he’s so much happier than before, and less stressed than when he was trying to manage the fallout from Hollingberry’s intrigues while he was still Minister. Minister Floyd appreciates him a lot, and he loves the position of secretary.”

Neville chuckled. “I have no doubt. Politics are his passion, that’s always been obvious. And he is quite brilliant at it. But how are the girls taking it?”

“Oh, he’s very careful. He’s there for every breakfast and supper, and he always brings them to bed. And Sunday afternoons are sacred; he turns down every request to come in, no matter how urgent. He’s got somebody for these emergencies so he’s actually not needed, but people still try to come to him with it.”

“They trust him,” Neville said. “He and Minister Floyd were the ones to take Hollingberry down, after all.”

“I know, and he’s glad about it, and more than only a little proud. But he’s adamant about his time with the girls, and they know it. They adore him.” Harry was sure that she must be smiling. 

“Adelaide wants to work at the Minister’s office just like him when she’s grown up; she’s got fixed plans already. And Frederica . . . you know she doesn’t like the Ministry much. She is more into drawing and music. She drew her first illustration for the _Quibbler_ last week. Father and I were so proud.” She laughed softly. “But she and Percy still have this special bond. When he comes home ranting about incompetence and how they haven’t managed to flush out everyone Hollingberry corrupted, she’ll simply go to him, sit on his lap and hug him, and he . . . I don’t know. It’s as if she could feel what’s happening inside and put a band-aid on the wound just by being there. I’ve never seen it before. She’s done it to me as well, and sometimes her sister, but it’s strongest with Percy.”

“That’s good, then,” Neville said. “Sometimes he seems so worried that he’s somehow lacking as a father, he told me.”

“I know. At first he didn’t even want to discuss children. He never told me the exact reason, but I believe he was worried he wouldn’t measure up to his own father. He said something about not being a warm enough person, which is of course utter nonsense. He could barely put Frederica down the first few months. Whenever he was home, I didn’t have to do anything at all. If he could have, he’d have got up at night to nurse her, I think.”

They both laughed, and Harry was amused as well by the mental image.

“I’m just glad Adelaide slept through the night almost immediately; I couldn’t have handled that many sleepless nights again.”

“I know what you mean. Robert still won’t sleep more than two hours at a time. I offered to bottle-feed him at night, but Ginny wants to try for another few weeks.”

Luna sighed sympathetically. “Speaking about sleep: I’m worried about Draco,” she said then. Harry listened more intently. He was very worried as well, by the lack of sleep and changes he had noticed over the last months, in Draco’s behaviour and over their link. 

“He doesn’t look well, and he doesn’t . . . well, he doesn’t feel right. There’s something wrong, more than him getting too little sleep. Frederica thinks the same. She came to me after the last time he and Harry were at our place, told me she was concerned.”

“About what?” Neville asked. “Did she say anything specific?”

“No. Only that he was very sad. ‘More than usually,’ was how she put it. And that he was thinking about ‘dark things’. But she wouldn’t say anything specific.” Luna lowered her voice, and Harry had to strain to understand her. “She’s got a gift, but she’s too young for this. Some of the things she’s picking up on are too much of a burden. She’s crying a lot and acting out, snapping at Adelaide, pushing away her friends. She shouldn’t feel Draco losing hope. I think that’s what it is. And Percy and I have been wondering . . . She’ll go to Hogwarts next year, and it might be too much. We’re looking for somebody to give her very basic Occlumency lessons, so that she can learn to shut her mind off against other people’s feelings. But we’ve got no idea if that might even work; it’s such advanced magic. We’re considering keeping her home for another year if nothing changes.”

“Maybe that would be for the best. I can’t imagine how Hogwarts must be if she can’t get a break from it. And I think you’re right about Draco. Hermione said something very similar only a few weeks ago.”

Harry agreed. Six and a half years had gone by since he’d been released from St. Mungo’s; six and a half years during which Draco had cared for him without hope of change. Now, with the added pressure of sleep deprivation and the worry that Harry was suffering from the dreams that sent him screaming on so many nights, Harry felt how slowly but surely, Draco was sliding down into depression. 

Harry himself was getting frustrated and began losing hope as well. Still, he had not managed to send even one word to Draco telepathically. He could feel his emotions without difficulty, and sometimes, he was almost certain that he was hovering at the edge of picking up a thought, but there was no progress in the other direction. What if that would never change? He’d begun asking himself that again.

Later that day, when most guests had already left and Harry was in his bed in the living room again to relieve his back after some hours in the wheelchair, Frederica came inside to him. She climbed in the bed onto her usual spot next to him and lay down with her head on his chest, right over his heart.

She wouldn’t fall asleep with him like she used to anymore; she was too old for that now. But whenever she was here, she’d lie with him for a while, and Harry enjoyed it as long as it lasted. None of his friends’ children had great reservations around him, but most of them didn’t pay more attention to him than to a piece of furniture, and while it made him sad, he couldn’t blame them. 

“I asked Mum to talk to Uncle Draco,” Frederica finally whispered. “Something is wrong. He’s . . . so sad. I know you know it too. You’re frightened, and he . . . he’s even more scared. I don’t know of what, but it’s bad.”

Harry thought he knew what it was: Draco had begun thinking of drinking again, and it did indeed frighten Harry. Draco couldn’t lose control – if that happened, nothing was certain anymore.

“It feels . . . it’s as if . . .” She was struggling to find the right words, and the grasp of her hand around his right fist tightened. Harry wished he could tell her that everything was going to be all right, and take away her worry. Luna was right: she was still so young, and he hated to burden her with all of this. It was affecting her too much in her own life.

“It’s as if he thinks that . . . that there’s nothing anymore,” she said after a while. “Just . . . nothing. As if it’s dark and it’s forever, with no light. With no . . . no hope.”

‘But, there is hope!’ Harry wanted to say. Despite his doubts, he didn’t want to give up. He couldn’t. And the idea of Draco doing it terrified him. In the end, who knew if he wouldn’t decide to have Harry be taken care of at St Mungo’s or some other, private care facility if he couldn’t take it anymore? If that happened, Harry knew he would never make it, and he had sensed the thought in Draco’s mind once already.

He couldn’t allow it. He had to make progress, and quickly, progress that would matter to Draco, keep him from leaving, keep him from drinking. By now, he could hold his head up by himself for about an hour and eat some spoonfuls of puréed food, even sometimes move his mouth enough to swallow on his own. But these tiny things weren’t enough. He needed to talk, and quickly. Before it was too late.

.-.-.-.-.

“Sir? Excuse me?”

“Yes?” 

Draco looked up from his ice cream at the elderly woman who seemed to belong to the café. It was a Muggle café they’d been to for the first time today; they hadn’t gone out in over three months, and when they’d arrived at their regular place, they had found that it had closed down two weeks ago. Draco rarely frequented Wizarding places anymore, and Harry was glad about it. Everyone knew who he was and he hated them staring. Muggles stared too, of course, but it was different.

“I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure how to say this, but I have to ask you to leave.”

“What?” 

“I’m very sorry, sir, but your . . . your friend –”

“My _husband_.” 

“Your husband, he’s, well, he’s disturbing the other customers. I’ve had complaints, and I’m very sorry, but I must ask you –”

“Complaints? About what?” Draco asked sharply. She had been speaking very softly, probably so as to keep the conversation private, but apparently, he had no such compunctions. “What about him is so ‘disturbing’?”

The woman was wringing her hands in discomfort, and Harry felt that she deserved every bit of it. Around him, he heard whispers and muttered remarks, and some of them were clearly disgusted – not with him, though, but with her.

“Well, I’m sure that you love your husband very much, and you’re used to how he looks, so maybe you’re not aware anymore –”

“I’m _perfectly_ aware of how he looks!” Draco snapped. He got up, and Harry saw that he was clenching his fists by his sides, obviously fighting to retain his temper. “I’ve got eyes in my head, I can see that he looks disabled. I can see that he’s drooling and that it isn’t pretty!”

Harry cringed; he wished Draco could calm down before he lost control. This hurt, but it wasn’t worth it.

“Then surely, you must understand why –” the woman began, but Draco interrupted her again.

“Are you telling me that somebody who was kidnapped and tortured by war criminals isn’t welcome here? Somebody who fought for _your kind_ and lost everything because of it, and that’s how you’re thanking him? By insulting him and throwing him out?”

He was almost yelling now and had obviously forgotten that the Muggles didn’t know about the war. Harry could only hope he wouldn’t mention wizards or magic. By now, the murmurs around them had grown louder. He could make out comments such as “Royal Army”, “war in Iraq” and “maybe Afghanistan”, “despicable” and “certainly not come here again!” It sounded as if the customers weren’t particularly disturbed by his presence, but rather by the woman’s behaviour. Still, none of them would speak up; all they did was mutter among themselves, and it annoyed Harry.

“I never meant to offend you or your husband, but you’ve got to leave my establishment right now or I’ll feel compelled to call the police and tell them that I feel threatened by you,” the woman said. All fake friendliness was gone from her voice. 

“Fine!” Draco spat. “I’ll make sure to let the papers know about this. Let’s see who will still come to this dump then.”

He disappeared from Harry’s field of vision, and Harry feared he might handle the wheelchair too abruptly in his anger and maybe run him into a chair or a table. But nothing of the sort happened, although he was walking faster than usual.

All the way home, Draco stayed silent, and the silence persisted once they had arrived and he’d settled Harry in the living room and sat down on the green couch himself. Harry could perfectly imagine him there: bent forwards with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, hair hanging limply around his face.

If only Harry could talk to him.

‘Draco?’ he tried, concentrating on Draco, willing him to hear him. ‘It’s not that bad, really. She was a dumb hag; nobody agreed with her.’

No reaction.

Harry sighed. He should have known it. He wondered if he should concentrate on their link, but he dreaded what he would find there, and so he simply waited. Maybe Draco would calm down, switch on the telly or read to him. Right now, Harry wouldn’t have minded whatever silly romance Draco was in the mood for.

The silence seemed to stretch endlessly. The grandfather clock was ticking monotonously. How long could they stay like this?

“ _Accio_ , Firewhiskey!”

‘No! Don’t do it!’

From somewhere, a full bottle of what must be Ogden’s floated past Harry and towards Draco. 

‘You don’t need that!’ Draco _had_ to hear him! ‘Don’t drink it! Go Firecall someone! Draco, please!’

It was no use. Draco summoned a glass, and then there was the clinking of the bottle against it. 

‘Shit! Stop this, you dumbarse! Don’t be so damn stupid!’

Nothing. 

‘God, please let him stop at this one glass.’

Of course, that idea was ridiculous. It seemed to take hardly a minute before Harry heard how the glass was filled again. There was a third time, and a fourth, and by then, Harry had given up hoping that Draco would stop before the bottle was empty. If he could have, he would have slapped sense into him and dragged him back to the _Hecate Domicile_ this instant. Draco couldn’t start drinking again; it would be a disaster.

At some point, Draco did turn on the TV. He watched some reality show, then there was a thriller. It must be evening by now, and time for Harry’s last cup of potion for the day. His nappy was wet as well, and while Draco usually checked on him regularly, now he seemed to waste no thought on him.

The thriller ended, and another programme began. It had to be after nine, maybe after ten. Harry was certain that Draco had emptied the bottle by now, and it made him worry for himself. A whole bottle of Firewhiskey was going to render him completely drunk, and Harry was helpless, incapable of preventing him from doing harm to either of them.

The telly was switched off in the end, and Harry felt himself tense. What would come next? 

“It’s no use,” Draco said dully. They were the first words he’d spoken since he’d lost composure at the café. “It’s just . . . nothing of this is making sense.”

His voice was coming closer, and then he appeared at the periphery of Harry’s vision, the half-filled glass in hand. “They keep trying and trying to convince me, you know. That you’re in there, somehow. That you know me, that it matters whether or not I’m here. It’s all rubbish.”

‘It’s not! I can hear you.’

“And those dumb Muggles keep _staring_ as if you’re some animal at the zoo. If I could, I’d hex them until they’re just like you, first of all that bitch from the café. And all the Wizarding folks right with them, they’re no better. They’re all the same kind of bloody arseholes.”

The glass was lifted up, and when it came back down, it was empty.

“I’m a right fool,” Draco said. His voice was slurred, and the glass slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. Harry noticed that he was clutching the rail of the bed tightly. “Not a drop in over seven years, and now this . . . but it doesn’t really matter anyway, right?”

He leant down to Harry, and not for the first time, Harry thought that he looked older than forty, with too deep lines around his mouth, and too tired eyes.

“I don’t know why I’m even talking to you. Weasley’s right, there’s nothing there. I should just stop punishing myself. Sometimes that’s what I think this is. Me punishing myself because this is all my fault. And it is, don’t try telling me I’m wrong about that. They can say it until they’re blue in the face, but it doesn’t change anything. Or maybe it’s your fault, stupid git, trying to save me again when I told you to leave me be. Saint Potter to the rescue! Well, this is what it got you. I’d be dead if you hadn’t, and you’d be running around healthy and happy. We’d both be better off that way.”

He was incoherent, and the intense stench of alcohol on his breath made Harry feel nauseated. He only hoped this bottle had been the only one in the house. When he carefully touched their connection, he wished that he hadn’t – there was a wave of despair rolling over him, a feeling as if now, everything was too late anyway. 

“We should go to bed,” Draco mumbled, straightening himself.

He couldn’t mean he’d try and bring Harry to bed in his condition. ‘Don’t! Just leave me here for the night and go to bed alone.’

Draco was fumbling with the wooden rail, trying to fold it down so he could put Harry in the wheelchair. Harry was sure that if he tried, he’d drop him to the floor. He could be seriously injured.

“Fuck this!” Draco snapped. He wasn’t managing to unhinge the safety joints of the railing, and when he slapped it weakly, he swayed on his feet and had to hold onto it for balance. For several moments, he kept staring down at the sheets, breathing heavily, then he shook his head.

“What am I doing?” he whispered. “This isn’t right.” He let go of the railing and stepped away from the bed, walking over to the fireplace, where he threw a handful of Floo Powder into it. His head disappeared in the green flames, and shortly after he’d pulled it out and stumbled backwards again, the fireplace once more sprang into life.

Harry was beyond relieved when he saw Hermione step out of the flames. She didn’t make any fuss, staying calm but firm as she took Draco’s arm and led him out of the room.

“Harry needs –” Draco began, but she only shook her head.

“I’ll take care of him, don’t worry. Right now, I’ll be bringing you to bed. Now come on.”

They disappeared from the living room, and a while later, Harry felt through the connection how Draco fell asleep. Shortly after, Hermione appeared again.

“He’s in bed and asleep,” she told Harry. “I’m glad he had enough sense to get me, but this is bad. He needs to start his counselling again.”

For the last two years, Draco hadn’t gone anymore. Harry had always felt that it wasn’t a good idea to stop, not in Draco’s situation, and he hoped that Draco would realise after today that Hermione was right.

“All right,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s get you ready for bed. And don’t worry, I’m staying the night. I put Draco to bed in his old room, and I’ll stay with you.”

Draco had been sleeping in bed with Harry ever since the regular nightmares had started; it was simply more practical that way. But tonight, Harry was glad he wouldn’t be there. Later, when he lay in bed, listening to Hermione’s even breathing, he couldn’t help but wonder if this evening would be the only one of its kind in the near future. Somehow, he very much doubted it.

.-.-.-.-.

“All right, I’m going today.”

‘Thank God,’ Harry thought.

“Good,” Luna said. “It really is for the best. I made all the arrangements earlier this morning, and they’re expecting you at five.”

They were sitting at the kitchen table, where Hermione had just been feeding Harry lunch – mashed potatoes which had ended up in equal parts in his stomach and on the bib – when Luna had arrived.

“I’m a gigantic fuck-up,” Draco muttered, looking down at the table. “Now I’m burdening you with all of this because I can’t even be here for Harry anymore.”

“That’s not true. And it’s not a burden on me, you know that. Ron and I don’t mind me staying with Harry for a few months. You only need some time to recover, find yourself again. It’s been over seven years, and I bet anybody would be exhausted,” Hermione said.

“Maybe, but everyone wouldn’t start drinking themselves unconscious. And leave their own husband lying in his shit and without food for a day and a night.”

“Which is why you’re now going back to the programme. You’ll see, a few months out of the house will help,” Luna said. 

She shifted closer and put her arm around Draco’s shoulder, and Harry was glad that somebody did what he couldn’t. It had been terrifying when Draco had drunk the entire day and then collapsed in the living room, leaving Harry without attending for nearly 24 hours. But it had been equally horrible to watch – and to feel – his reaction when he realised what he had done.

He’d Firecalled Hermione, still not quite sober, and when she was there, he had begged her to protect Harry from him. It had taken her the better part of the morning, from what Harry had been able to observe, to somewhat calm him down, while Luna, whom she had called in, had been taking care of Harry.

Four months had passed since Draco had touched alcohol again, and since that evening, he’d spent maybe a handful of days without drinking. Mostly, he’d only had a glass or two, as far as Harry could tell, and he’d taken care of him as well as usual. But there had been a few times when he’d been slurring his words, and there had been that time when he had almost let Harry fall out of bed. 

Their friends had been urging him to return to the _Hecate Domicile_ for weeks now; Harry had heard them argue with him, and there had been raised voices and the threat of having Harry removed from his care more than once. But it seemed that Draco had only realised during these last two days what was happening, and how much he needed help.

“But what then?” he now asked. Harry felt despair roll off him in black, heavy waves. “It will just be the same.”

“It won’t,” Hermione said. “You’ll go to counselling more often, maybe twice a week, and you won’t stop going this time. And we’ll be here more as well and help you with Harry. Me, Luna, Ginny and Neville. Molly wants to help out too, and Andromeda and Teddy, and even Theo and Amalia asked me if they could do something. We’ve not been there enough. It’s our fault as well.”

“You shouldn’t have to –” Draco began, but Luna cut him off.

“You’re part of the family,” she said softly, “both of you, and it’s time you understood that. Now stop contradicting.”

Draco nodded mutely.

“Luna is right,” Hermione said. “Now how about I’ll take a walk with Harry and you two start packing your things.”

“All right.” Draco took a deep breath and got up. “Thank you, both of you. I wouldn’t know what I’d do without you.”

Harry agreed. Without their friends, neither of them would have made it even through the first two years halfway sane. He didn’t even want to imagine how things might have gone or where he would be. 

When Draco left in the evening, it was as if a heavy weight was lifted from Harry’s shoulders. They’d make it through this, he had to believe it.

It was nice with Hermione, Harry thought when three weeks had gone by. These last months, he’d been living in a perpetual state of anxiety; now he didn’t have to fear getting hurt by accident anymore. Hermione was reading to him a lot, as Draco had when he’d still been feeling better, and she was taking long walks with him whenever the weather was good. Draco had never liked that too much; except for going out to have some cake or ice cream at a Muggle café once or twice a month, he’d only gone to their friends’ homes with Harry.

Even Ron had seemed to take heart after so many years – he came for supper every second day and would stay for two or three hours, and while he didn’t talk to Harry other than saying hello and goodbye, he’d sat with him in silence a few times and held his hand.

Harry found that he did miss Draco very much, though: the way he would smile at him, speak to him and pet his hair while he did it; the shows Draco watched – and Harry listened to – on TV. How he’d hold him and sing to him after a nightmare, always the same strange old lullaby he’d learnt from Narcissa. He even missed the snotty remarks and the awful romance novels, or rather the way Draco felt when he read them. And he missed his constant presence through their link, more than he would have thought possible. It was only now that he realised how used he had got to living with him, and how much he had, in fact, liked it – despite the circumstances.

After four weeks, Draco came to stay for one night because of the Blood Bond; he didn’t want for either of them to take potions so that they could stay apart for longer without repercussions. He looked less tired, Harry thought, and while he still felt the depression through the connection, there was a small flutter of hope as well, that maybe things would get better in the end. 

And for a while, it seemed that this was what would happen. It took five months before Draco felt ready to come home again, and when he returned, he appeared to have gained some balance. The sadness Harry felt in him was never far from the surface, but it was less desperate than it had been. Something else began growing instead: a light, almost relieved feeling. Acceptance, peace, that was what it seemed to be. 

As the days and weeks went by, they settled into a new routine. Draco went out more – with Hermione, with Theo, with Luna. To the theatre, to the pictures, sometimes a concert, or just an afternoon with his godson, away from home and Harry, from being a caretaker. As they had promised, their friends helped out more, and while it was strange and uncomfortable to have people other than him or sometimes Hermione and Luna feeding him and changing his nappies, Harry was determined that he wouldn’t mind so much as long as it helped Draco. And it wasn’t as if he had a choice. He would get used to it.

Winter turned into spring and spring into summer, Draco turned 42, and then Harry followed. Teddy brought home a fiancée. Adelaide began her first year at Hogwarts, and Frederica, at age 13, her second – Percy and Luna had kept her home for another year, during which she had learnt to shield her mind better. Ginny and Neville had their fourth child, a daughter named Bridget. Ron continued to visit every once in a while. Hermione published her third book.

Slowly, as autumn came and Harry watched how the leaves turned yellow and red on his afternoon walks with Hermione, he came to a conclusion which had been growing in him for a while: he might never learn how to reach Draco with words, after all. More than eight and a half years had gone by since he had come home from St. Mungo’s, and he’d spent almost that entire time attempting to make it work without success.

Maybe all he would ever manage was this. And maybe – he’d thought it before, but never wanted to dwell on it – it was time to accept the life he had. Other people had it worse. He wasn’t homeless, he wasn’t hungry. He had many friends and a husband who loved him dearly and showed it every day.

There were long hours that felt as if they would never end, and days when he still didn’t think it was worth going on living, but he couldn’t change what had happened. Maybe, he thought one evening, as he was lying in bed in his room, with Draco stroking his hair as he fell asleep, telling him about his theatre visit earlier this day, just maybe he might learn to make peace with living like this.

.-.-.-.-.

“I can’t live like this anymore.”

Draco’s voice stirred Harry from his slight doze. What had he said?

It was an afternoon in late January; outside, the world was hidden under a blanket of snow, while they were comfortably warm inside with a fire crackling in the fireplace and Harry wrapped up in a thick blanket in the nursing bed. He’d awoken from his afternoon nap a while ago and after Draco had put on his glasses and elevated the bed again, he’d listened to the music Draco had switched on – something classical with an orchestra and a piano. At some point he must have fallen back asleep again.

As he now slowly opened his eyes, he found himself looking up at Draco, who was in turn looking down on him with a strange expression. Harry had noticed it several times over the last weeks, but he didn’t know what to make of it. He’d tried to find out more, but whenever Draco looked at him that way, all that Harry could sense from him was a mixture of love, melancholy, and the peace he’d felt in him more and more often. He had thought that maybe Draco, too, had begun to come to terms with the situation.

“I wanted to tell you sooner,” he now said, “but I didn’t know how. I couldn’t make myself say the words.”

Tell him what? The way Draco said it, his voice and that strange look in his eyes, made Harry’s stomach sink. Something was wrong, he needed no Blood Bond to know that.

Draco folded down the rail of the bed and sat down next to him, then he carefully pulled him into his arms, Harry’s head leaning against his chest. He sat like this for a while without speaking, only beginning to rock Harry very slightly, humming the melody of their lullaby under his breath. At any other time, Harry would have relaxed and enjoyed it, enjoyed the closeness and the love he felt through the link. But this wasn’t right – there was something else, something that frightened him. It felt different, and when Draco sat still in the end and sighed heavily, his embrace tightening, Harry knew what it was.

This felt like a farewell.

He had to be wrong, he told himself. He couldn’t possibly know that. He was imagining things.

“I’ve been thinking about it since I went back to the programme last year,” Draco said. “In fact, they suggested it. At first, I didn’t want to hear a word of it. I still didn’t when I came back. But . . . it is making sense.”

‘What is it? Tell me!’

“I need to leave, Harry.”

No.

“I love you.” Draco’s voice was shaking, and he held Harry even closer, so much that it hurt. “I love you more than I . . . it’s why I have to go. I can’t do this anymore. I never understood Weasley in the beginning, but now . . .”

This couldn’t be happening. ‘Don’t do this. You can’t! If you love me, you can’t leave!’

“I talked it through with our friends. Luna and Hermione . . . they think it’s for the best, and Ginny and Neville too. Weasley called me a lot of awful names when he heard it first, but I know he understands. He agreed to move in here with Hermione.” Slowly, Draco loosened his hold and laid Harry down against the pillow again after kissing his forehead. He looked at him with a sad smile and dry eyes, and it was then that Harry knew that he had long made his decision, had made it months ago. This was the reason for the peace Harry had felt from him.

“I bought a small house in France, at the beach. The Atlantic Ocean. You can hear the surf when the windows are open. I’m glad Minister Floyd lifted the ban on us leaving the country. Now maybe some of the others can start over. I bought a piano too; I had lessons as a kid. Maybe I can play again. And I can paint. I’ll come here every month, just to spend the night and refresh the bond. But I won’t . . . I won’t see you. I don’t think I can.”

This was the end, then? Harry knew it was true, but he couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to live with anybody else, not even Ron and Hermione. If he had to stay like this forever, he wanted no, he _needed_ it to be with Draco. No matter how much he loved his friends, he couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life like this with them. The only way it might be close to bearable would be if it was with Draco, the one person who was more important to him than anyone else. And how and when had this happened? When had he begun to feel this way?

“I wanted to take care of you,” Draco murmured. “I wanted to be there, always. But I can’t. It’s too . . . I’ve got to take care of myself. I’m sorry.”

‘You can’t do this! I can’t do this! Not without you! Draco, damn, I’m _talking_ to you! Don’t get up now!’

It was no use – Draco slowly slid from the bed and tucked the blanket back aground Harry, then he carefully wiped his mouth and chin dry. “I’m leaving now. I packed my things last night, I’m not taking a lot with me. Hermione is waiting for me at her place; she’ll come over in five minutes. We’d planned for next week, but I can’t wait any longer.”

Right now? ‘No, don’t!’ It was all going too fast. Why hadn’t anyone told him? Why hadn’t he noticed? Draco couldn’t leave, right now, forever.

Like he had done that day in the garden years ago, Draco leant down and put his forehead against Harry’s. “I love you,” he whispered. There were no tears this time. “Goodbye.”

‘No! I . . . I love you, Draco, don’t leave me!’

How could Harry only have realised it now? Now, when it was too late?

Abruptly, Draco straightened himself and turned away, heading for the door with long strides. Harry felt paralysed – not only his body, but his mind as well. In a few seconds, everything would be over. 

‘Don’t leave me!’ 

Draco had reached the door and was about to open it. 

_Don’t leave me!_

Draco froze mid-step and spun around to Harry, eyes wide as saucers. “What?!”

Harry felt just as surprised as Draco was looking. What had happened? 

Cautiously, Draco took a step into Harry’s direction. “You . . . did you just say: _Don’t leave me_?”

Had he? He’d _thought_ it, yes, over and over, but had that reached Draco telepathically or had he spoken out loud without even intending to? Was that even possible at all? The idea made Harry’s heart thud wildly in his chest and his blood buzz in his ears. If he could _speak_ , speak for real . . . Determined, he concentrated, willing his mouth to move, willing himself to talk, to say even one word, show Draco what he’d been wanting him to know for nine years now.

It didn’t work. No sound would come. Even worse, his mouth stayed wide open, no matter how hard he tried, and Harry could feel a fresh trickle of drool running down his chin onto the bib on his chest. Damn this! But maybe it had been telepathy. Maybe it had worked, after all these failed attempts. Maybe Luna had been right after all.

“I’m an idiot. Of course you didn’t.” 

Harry cursed silently as he watched Draco shake his head and run one hand over his face, now looking sadder and even more tired than before. “I’ve got to get out of here before I go completely mental.”

As he turned to leave again, Harry felt an icy fist clench his heart. This couldn’t be happening! He wouldn’t _allow_ it to happen! 

_No! Don’t go! Fuck you, Draco, don’t you dare leave me like this!_ He felt beside himself with frustration and fear. _If you go out of that door I’ll hex your snotty arse until you’re in a bloody wheelchair yourself!_

For some horrible moments, as Draco put his hand on the door handle, it seemed that all was lost. But he didn’t push it; he only stood there silently as if he were uncertain of what to do, his head bowed, his back rigid.

 _Don’t leave!_ Harry repeated in his mind, willing Draco to hear him with all his strength. _Don’t. Look at me! I’m right here!_

Still, Draco didn’t move, and Harry was suddenly convinced that this was it. Draco would walk out of here, and there was nothing that he could do. 

Then, for the second time, Draco turned around to him. 

He moved slowly this time, approaching the bed almost like a sleep-walker, never taking his eyes off Harry’s face. When he had reached him, Harry could see as he leant over him that he was incredibly pale and his lips were pressed together in a thin line. 

“It was in my mind,” he said slowly. He was looking at Harry as if he were some strange Magical Creature he’d never seen before. “Your voice – I could hear it in my mind, saying you’d hex me if I dared leave now.”

It hard worked. It had finally worked! After nine years of trying, after he had almost given up. Now he only had to do it again. ‘Please, don’t let me down,’ he begged silently, then he concentrated completely on Draco before him.

_Can you hear me now?_

“Yes!” 

He’d done it! Harry couldn’t remember having ever felt so triumphant in his life: flying on a broom for the first time, winning a Quidditch match, all the dangers he’d mastered – nothing of it could compare.

Hectic red spots were blooming high on Draco’s cheeks, and he raked his fingers through his hair as he always did when he was excited or upset. “But this is . . . What if I just . . . Oh, damn!” He closed his eyes for a moment before he drew a deep breath, obviously struggling for control.

_It’s real, Draco. It is! I’m talking to you, you’re not imagining things! Luna was right, telepathy does work for us because of the Blood Bond!_

“All right. Fine.” Draco nodded and opened his eyes again, appearing somewhat calmer as he looked at Harry intently. “But if you want me to believe that I’m not going stark raving mad, you’ll have to do something other than that. Something that’s not in my mind.”

Abruptly, Harry’s elation left him. How should he do that? He couldn’t make a sound when he tried, he couldn’t move a muscle deliberately other than his mouth, and even that was hit-and-miss and hadn’t worked only moments before.

_I can’t. I’m stuck like this!_

The look of anxious anticipation slowly drained from Draco’s face, and Harry had to watch helplessly as it was replaced with resignation. 

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Draco murmured softly. He reached out and caressed Harry’s face, let his fingertips wander over his temple and cheek before he pulled his hand away again. “I can’t . . . It’s too good to be true. To have it happen today of all days. Have it happen at all, the one thing I’ve wanted more than anything these last years.” His voice was choked, and Harry wanted to scream in frustration. “This isn’t you. You . . . you’re gone. It’s much more likely that I’m talking to myself pretending it’s you, that I’m having a nervous breakdown and should Firecall St Mungo’s. Maybe something is still trying to convince me that I should stay.”

No. Harry refused to give up. This was his chance, the only one he’d get. He _could_ prove to Draco that he was here. And he would. Now.

_All right. You’re asking me to convince you that you’re not hallucinating. That I can understand you and talk to you. Remember St. Mungo’s, how the Healers asked me to blink twice for ‘yes’? Look at me. The answer is . . ._

He didn’t allow himself to think about it, to worry about failing. It wasn’t an option. He looked firmly into Draco’s eyes, concentrated, and pushed his tongue out of his mouth. Once. Twice.

Draco didn’t react. He stayed motionless, looking at him as if nothing had happened.

_Draco? Did you see what I did? It’s not blinking, I can’t do that, but –_

“Do it again!” The words were ground out between gritted teeth, and if possible Draco had gone even paler. “Please, I want to believe it, but . . .” He trailed off, and Harry hated how utterly lost he was looking. 

Again, he focused sharply and thrust out his tongue twice. As he did it, more drool ran down his chin, and then his neck, into his jumper, but he didn't care.

“Yes,” Draco whispered almost inaudibly. “You said yes. You really . . .” He slumped down ungracefully on the carpet next to the bed; Harry couldn’t see him anymore, but heard that he was crying. Through the link, he felt a wild turmoil of emotions.

 _Draco . . ._ he began, but then he thought better of it. He hated that he couldn’t hold him or touch him at all, but there was nothing he could say that would comfort him right now. Or maybe there was. He’d heard it so often that he knew the words and melody perfectly well, and if he could talk to Draco in his mind, then he surely could . . .

_Oh, hush thee, my baby, Thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, Both lovely and bright . . ._

Harry had no idea how often he sang the lullaby in his mind. It didn’t seem important. At some point, Draco stopped sobbing and Harry could only hear quiet whimpers, and finally, they died down as well. Harry, too, fell silent.

“Harry?” 

_Yes?_

“You . . . you really are . . .”

_I am. But can you get up? I want to look at you._

Draco obeyed – he got up and appeared in Harry’s field of vision, looking down at him with an expression that was a mix of joy and terror.

“How long have you . . .” He barely seemed to be able to speak, his voice giving in again. 

_Always. I woke up just a few weeks after they found us._

“Oh Merlin!” Guilt flooded through the bond, and Draco’s face twisted. “I should have noticed!”

_You couldn’t. Nobody could, not even the Healers. Don’t start blaming yourself again, you’ve done that for too long._

“But I should . . . if I had –”

 _What? What should you have done? You did everything you could, and more. I saw that. I_ felt _it._

There was no answer, only another wave of grief and guilt, and more than anything, Harry wished once again that he could get up and embrace Draco. But there was only one thing he could give him. 

_It wasn’t your fault. The kidnapping. What our friends told you – they were right. It wasn’t your fault. Nothing of this is your fault._

Draco covered his face with his hand and moaned, or maybe it was a sob, Harry couldn't be certain.

_It’s all right. You did nothing wrong, never._

For a few moments, Draco stayed like this, then he uncovered his face and reached out for Harry. His hand was trembling violently, and he stopped only an inch away from Harry’s face before he dropped it again. “I . . . tell me again that this is real. I still feel as if I’m hallucinating.”

_It’s real._

“No, tell me so that I can _see_ it.”

 _All right. Look._ Harry tried to move his tongue – and couldn’t. Draco kept looking at him with a worried frown, which deepened as second after second went by and nothing happened.

“Harry?”

 _I’m trying! God, you’ve got no idea how hard this is._ Again, he concentrated as much as he could, and this time, he managed to do it and signal a ‘yes’.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m not crazy.”

_No, you’re not crazy. But you’re frightening me when you talk about this being a hallucination. I’m still halfway expecting that you’ll vanish through that door and never come back, and I won’t be able to do anything about it._

And even now, who said Draco wouldn’t? Who said that it was enough for him to know that Harry was aware and could speak to him? Maybe he still couldn’t cope.

_Will you leave?_

Draco hesitated. “I . . .” He trailed off again, apparently at a loss of words.

 _Don’t,_ Harry said. _Don’t leave. Please._

Still, Draco didn’t reply, and Harry felt more and more worried. Now that he’d finally managed to talk, Draco leaving was more than he thought he could bear.

_Do you remember what you said when you first told me you loved me? Out in the garden? You said you watched me after we got married, and that you realised that you liked me. That you fell in love with me._

Draco nodded. Through the link, Harry felt hesitation, but also a small flutter of hope, and it made him hope in return.

_I’ve been watching, too. I’ve been listening. For ten years. I’m not sure when it happened, but I love you too._

If only Draco would believe him. He didn’t say anything, but only looked down at him with this confused, helpless expression that made Harry want to shake him.

_I’m not saying this only to make you stay with me. It’s the truth! If it weren’t, why would I want to keep you here? I could live with Ron and Hermione just fine. Now that you know I'm awake and I can say 'yes', we could figure out a way of me talking to them without needing you. But I love you, and I want to be with you. We’ve been through so much since we got married, and now that we finally . . . Please, Draco. We deserve to be together. Please stay._

There was nothing else that Harry could say. All he could do was wait for an answer. He deliberately tried to shut off his mind against Draco’s feelings; he was too frightened of what he might find there.

The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner was unnerving in the lingering silence.

“Harry . . .” Again, Draco reached out with a shaking hand, but this time he made the contact, his fingers sliding into Harry’s hair in the familiar, comforting touch. Like he’d done earlier, he bent down until their foreheads touched, closing his eyes. He stayed like this for Harry didn’t know how long. Each moment was endless.

“I’ll stay,” Draco whispered when Harry already thought he wouldn't anymore, that he was searching for a way to tell him he couldn't do it. “I love you. I’ll stay.”

Harry couldn’t answer, couldn’t think; he was too overwhelmed with relief and joy – both his own and Draco’s, which broke though his mental barrier as if it didn’t exist. There was another long silence, but this time, it wasn’t threatening. Now they’d have all the time to say what they wanted to, what they hadn’t been able to talk about all these years.

In the end, Draco pulled away and looked down at Harry, his eyes soft and alive in a way they hadn’t been in a long time. 

_Now there’s one thing I need,_ Harry said. It wasn’t the right time for silly jokes, but suddenly, he couldn’t hold back. He felt too good, too ridiculously giddy about the fact that he _could_ make silly jokes to even try. _I need you to promise me something, something very important. I’ve been wanting to ask you this for years._

“Anything you want.”

_No more strawberry potion. Ever._

“What?” 

_It tastes like puke, seriously._

Draco stared at Harry speechlessly, his face working hard. Harry already feared that he’d gone too far and that Draco might cry again – but he didn’t. Instead, he broke into laughter.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOo ******

**Part 4: Valiant Knights and Damsels in Distress  
**

“So are you ready for . . .” Draco trailed off and looked down at Harry with an unhappy frown.

It was the next morning, and while, after they’d woken up, they had both felt as elated by the fact that Draco could actually hear Harry as the day before, now that feeling was replaced by uncertainty and embarrassment.

Already, the previous evening had been hard, harder than they had expected. Neither of them had wanted to tell their friends immediately – they’d wanted this one afternoon and night to themselves – and so Draco had informed Hermione that he’d stay another night and asked her to come over with Ron in the morning. For some time, they had talked, had tried to fill in the huge blanks. Mostly, Harry had told Draco about waking up at St Mungo’s. As they had quickly found out, telepathy tired Harry, just as deepening the empathic connection had in the beginning, and so he’d spent a good part of the afternoon sleeping.

The time had come when Harry needed to eat, and while Draco had demonstratively thrown all the bottles with strawberry potion into the bin on his request, supper had been an awkward affair. These last years, Draco had been calm and self-confident about feeding Harry – now he seemed uncomfortable with having to help him swallow and unsure of how to react to him gagging and pushing food out of his mouth involuntarily. It had ended with them eating in tense silence, and Harry feeling almost as disabled and ashamed in front of Draco as he had when he’d come home in the beginning.

After that, it had got even worse: if he could have died from embarrassment as he prepared Harry for bed, then Draco would have – at least that was what Harry sensed from him despite his attempt to block their connection. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it; all he’d said was “I’m fine,” when Harry had breached the subject, but now the same situation was here again.

Somehow, Harry had imagined that once he could talk, things would be easier immediately, but, he thought glumly as Draco peeled his pyjamas off him, he had obviously been mistaken. When he was naked except for the nappy and Draco slowly and very hesitantly reached out to open it, Harry felt an overwhelming sense of embarrassment and unwillingness from him. 

_You’ve been doing this every day for the past nine years!_ He knew he was making everything worse, but he couldn’t help himself. _If you want to make me feel awful and disgusting, then you’re succeeding admirably._

“Yes, that was precisely my goal,” Draco snapped. Then he sighed deeply and raked his hand through his hair. 

_I’m sorry. It’s only . . . you’re so different. You were never like this before._

There was no reply; Draco simply changed his nappy in silence. When he was finished and had cleaned his hands, he dressed Harry as carefully and expertly as ever, but instead of helping him into the wheelchair, he propped him up against several pillows and sat down next to him on the bed. He reached for him, probably out of habit, Harry thought, but hesitated before his hand touched Harry’s hair.

_It’s all right to touch me. You needn’t ask for permission every time, really._

Draco nodded, but still hesitated before he finally began petting him. Harry sighed involuntarily; he needed this kind of comfort right now.

_I thought everything would be better once I could talk to you, he said in the end. That was pretty naïve, huh?_

“If it was, then I’m as naïve as you.” Draco dropped his hand. “I don’t . . . I’ve got no idea what I’m even doing! Before, I treated you . . . well, I talked to you as if you were a child. But you’re not. Everything is different all of a sudden, and I don’t want to be . . . I don’t know. Disrespectful. I keep imagining how humiliating it must be if I couldn’t move at all but notice everything. How it might feel if somebody kept treating me as if I weren’t there, mentally. And how everyone would just do whatever the heck they wanted with me. I don’t want to just _grab_ you and do something you can’t . . .” He trailed off and shook his head. 

_I get it,_ Harry said. He did, it made sense. _And I do appreciate it. It was disturbing. And humiliating, at first. But you never treated me like a kid._

Draco looked doubtful.

 _You didn’t._ Harry wasn’t sure how to say it, how to make him understand. _You treated me like somebody you loved, nothing else. You talked to me about how you felt, you held me, you comforted me when I needed it, you did everything for me that I couldn’t; things a lot of people would never do, not even for their husband. I don’t feel humiliated or disrespected when you feed me or clean me. Not anymore, not for a long time. I don’t like that it has to be this way, but I’m over resenting it. I’m not bitter anymore. When you do these things for me, I feel . . . I feel loved. And that’s all there is to it, to me._

It was true, Harry realised. He hadn’t formulated these thoughts so clearly to himself before, but it was what he’d been feeling for a while, why he had finally come to consider living with Draco without being able to communicate and not despaired at the idea.

“I do love you,” Draco murmured. “And I’m glad that you feel that way. But I’ll have to get used to this. Things changed so much; you need to give me time. And when I thought you didn’t understand, I could . . . it was easier. To forget how it used to be between us, before.”

_To be yourself with me?_

Draco nodded silently.

_I get that. And you can have all the time you need. I'll have to get used to this as well. But I want you to try and believe me when I say that I love you just as you are._

A steep crease appeared on Draco's forehead, but he sighed deeply and nodded again. "I'll try."

 _Is it so hard to believe you're loved?_ Harry felt uncomfortable prying like this, but Draco was emanating such uncertainty and hesitation that he couldn't let it go.

There was a surge of unwillingness and even annoyance and Draco looked down, away from Harry.

"Try living as the scum at the bottom of society for years, with everyone telling you how disgusting and evil you are, especially when you know that they've got a point, at least to some degree. After the war . . . even during it all, I knew it was wrong what he was doing. What _we_ were doing. I realised that when I was supposed to kill Dumbledore. And when the Ministry began penalising us, trying to kill us . . . it was wrong, and I was angry and hated them, but sometimes . . ."

 _Sometimes you asked yourself if they weren't right._ Harry realised that he understood Draco perfectly. Luckily, he'd somehow managed to reject the Dursleys' views of him as a child, but he could easily have believed them, he knew that by now. There had been those moments when he'd doubted himself, when he had wondered if they didn't have to be right, after all. He should tell Draco about it soon, show him that he understood.

"Sometimes I still do."

One more time, Harry wished he could move and do more than only comfort Draco with words. 

_Believe me, not them. Believe our friends – we all love you. Even Ron doesn't think you're a bad person, you know that._

Draco looked up and smiled weakly at Harry. "He's a bonehead, but his heart is in the right place."

_Kind of like you._

Now Draco's smile deepened, and Harry was glad to feel that some of the sadness and insecurity was ebbing away. Still it would be a struggle to come to terms with everything, their past and their future, and he couldn't help but be frightened that they might not make it.

_Do you think . . . can you do it, with time? Can we both do it? Can we be happy someday?_

Harry wasn’t certain if tone of voice could be conveyed telepathically, but somehow, Draco seemed to sense how worried he was – probably because it was the same for him. Slowly and deliberately, he picked up the edge of the bib and dabbed the drool from Harry’s mouth and chin, never taking his eyes away from Harry’s. Then he leant in and kissed him, not on the lips – they both weren’t ready, Harry felt it – but just over the corner of his mouth. 

“Yes,” he said firmly. “It’s not going to be easy, but if we both want it, we can.”

Two hours later, they were in the living room, waiting for Ron and Hermione. Harry was sitting in the wheelchair – he didn’t want to lie in bed for this. 

After their talk, breakfast had been better than supper the previous day. Draco had been hesitant, but not quite as uncomfortable, and Harry had seen his obvious determination. That, too, made him feel loved, and Draco had given him a warm smile when he’d said it. It would take time, maybe a long time, but Harry dared to hope that eventually, they could find their way around this new situation, together.

They were expecting Hermione and Ron at 10.30am, and sure enough, the fireplace roared into life and first Ron and then Hermione appeared. Hermione walked over to Draco and greeted him with a hug.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“No. I’m not going. I’m staying with Harry.”

Harry didn’t have to be able to see their faces to know how surprised their friends were.

“Why?” Hermione asked. 

“Something happened yesterday,” Draco said. He sounded excited, and Harry could see that he was smiling brightly. “Something wonderful. I can hear Harry in my mind.”

That wasn’t really the sanest-sounding thing to start this conversation with, Harry thought, and obviously, Hermione agreed with him.

“Draco, are you certain you’re feeling well?” she asked in a soft voice. “Maybe . . . would you like to sit down? I could Firecall your counsellor.”

Draco didn’t answer for some moments, obviously confused, but then he shook his head. “I’m not crazy. I thought I was, yesterday when it happened. I thought I was having a breakdown and imagining things, but it is true.” 

“You’re making no sense,” Ron said. “You sound pretty bonkers to me.”

“Thank you very much for that expert opinion. But I’m not. How about we sit down and you let me explain what is going on.”

The two let Draco usher them to the reading corner and onto the red couch, while Draco sat down in an armchair. On Harry’s request, he’d put the wheelchair on the opposite side of the coffee table so that Harry could see all of them.

“Now, I know it sounds strange,” he said, “and I couldn’t believe it at first. As I said, I thought I was having a nervous breakdown. But . . . Hermione, do you remember what Luna told us about Blood Bonds? About the connections some couples form in their minds?”

Her eyes went wide, and she nodded, very slowly. Harry knew that she’d grasped immediately what Draco was telling them, but that she didn’t dare believe it.

“What are you talking about?” Ron asked.

“It has something to do with the Blood Bond. There are couples for whom it does more than force them into fidelity and living together. I had no idea – Luna told me about it, and Hermione too.”

“I borrowed the book from her,” Hermione interrupted Draco. Her voice sounded dazed, as if she were struggling to believe that what was happening around her was real. “It said some couples form an empathic connection, that they can feel each other’s feelings. And some . . . it’s rare, but it said some can communicate through telepathy. Is that it, Draco? Is that what you think happened?”

“Wait.” Ron was at the edge of his seat, hands clenched around the armrests. “Are you telling us Harry was conscious all along? That he can hear us?” 

“Yes. He can understand us, he always could. And he heard when Luna told me about those connections and about telepathy. He has been trying to reach me for years, and yesterday it finally worked. We’re not sure why.”

“That’s nonsense!” Ron snapped. “I don’t believe you.”

“Ron! Don’t –” Hermione began.

“No. He’s gone mental! It’s not as if I don’t understand it. I’d snap too, after ten years of this. Now, Malfoy . . .” Ron tried his best to sound calm and reasonable now, Harry noticed. “What you need to do is let us call your counsellor or maybe St Mungo’s. They can help you. And you needn’t worry about Harry, we’ll be here.”

Draco let out a frustrated sigh. “I am not crazy,” he repeated. “I thought I was imagining it because I couldn’t take leaving, so I asked him to do something I couldn’t be imagining. Something that didn’t involve hearing a voice in my head. And he did. He can show you as well.”

“I’m sorry to say it, but you probably imagined that as well.”

 _God, shut up, Ron! Just let us show you!_ Harry wished he could send this to Ron instead of Draco – the shock would be well-deserved. He knew why Ron was rejecting even the possibility of it being true, but now that he finally could make himself known, all it did was frustrate and annoy him, and he was sick of being talked about as if he wasn’t even here.

“Honestly, Weasley, you sound as if you _want_ him to be a vegetable!” Draco sounded – and felt – as annoyed as Harry was.

“Don’t you dare –” Ron snarled, getting up from the couch, but Hermione immediately got up as well and grabbed his arm.

“Don’t,” she said. “Stop this, both of you. Ron, we can’t be certain. If Draco says Harry can talk to him through telepathy . . . it’s not entirely impossible. And if he says Harry can actually show us, we should at least let him try.”

Ron was standing stiffly, fists still clenched.

“It’s what we’ve been wishing for all these years,” Hermione said, putting her arm around him, and after a few seconds, he nodded.

“If he can actually understand us and talk to you, then I want him to tell you something about me only he knows, something neither he nor I have ever told anyone else.” 

Still, Ron wasn’t even _looking_ at Harry, much less talking to him directly, and it aggravated him even more, making the choice of what to say rather easy. There were a couple of things, but one thing in particular that Harry knew would embarrass Ron even now.

_So, tell him this: in third year, he was so helplessly crushing on Professor Sinistra that he wrote her a love letter that was two rolls of parchment long. He kept it under his pillow and sometimes took it out to read it and fawn over her. I caught him, and I read part of it, and it was the kitschiest thing I’ve ever heard. Worse than any of your romance novels. He went on waxing poetic about her ‘chocolate skin’ and her eyes ‘shining like stars’ and so on. He burnt it after that and threatened to kill me if I ever told anybody._

Draco did as Harry asked him to, and Ron turned to look at Harry as if he was seeing Voldemort’s ghost, his mouth agape and eyes wide as saucers. Harry noticed with satisfaction that his face had taken on the same colour as his hair.

“How do . . . I never told . . . and he wouldn’t have . . .”

“Now is that proof enough?” Draco asked. 

“But it can’t . . .” Ron began, only to fall silent again and continue his open-mouthed staring. 

Harry’d had enough. If he could speak, he’d have given Ron a verbal whack over the head long ago. After all this time, after he’d been going on about how much he hated that Harry wasn’t aware of his surroundings and of his best friend, he should be overjoyed to find out that he was wrong, not in denial, no matter how hard this might be on him. 

_Tell him this,_ Harry said to Draco, who frowned as he went on, but was clearly amused; Harry could feel that. 

“Seriously? You want me to tell him that? In these words?”

_Go on! He deserves it._

“You know, it might be a bit harsh in this situation. More than a bit.”

_Don’t do this, Draco. Don’t decide what I can and can’t say, just because I need you to say it for me._

Draco sighed. “Right. But if he hexes me, it’s your responsibility.” He turned to Ron. “So, he’s telling you to shut your trap before the flies come in. Says he’s got a good reason to make that stupid face all the time, but you look just ridiculous like this. Even dumber than Grawp.” 

“Draco!” Hermione sounded shocked, and if possible Ron was gawking at Harry even worse than before. He was trying to say something, mouth opening and closing mutely, which made him look like an absurd red-headed fish.

“It’s really inappropriate to joke about . . .” Hermione began.

“Fuck you! That’s not funny, Malfoy!” Ron snapped at the same time, at last having found his voice. 

Harry laughed. It was a strange, wheezing mixture between laughing and moaning, and he’d had no idea that he could do it until now. But their faces were too hilarious, and the fact that he’d managed to make the two react so typically for them, just like he’d been able to ten years ago, was almost too amazing to be true. Now they as well as Draco were staring at him incredulously, and Harry, still shaking with laughter, decided that this was definitely one of the best days of his life.

When he could stop laughing, he felt that everything in Draco wanted to rush to Harry’s side – but he stayed put. Instead, Ron and Hermione ran over to him as if they’d just awoken from a daze.

“Harry?” Hermione whispered when she was with him, her voice shaking as much as her hand as she touched his shoulder. “It’s true? You could understand us all along? You’re . . . _talking_ to Draco?”

Ron said nothing; he only knelt next to the wheelchair and took Harry’s left fist in both of his large warm hands, his eyes glued to Harry’s face. It was painfully obvious how scared he was, scared that this was not true. Harry had to do more to convince them, give them solid proof, like he’d needed to do with Draco.

 _Tell them what I’m going to do, tell them I’ll be saying yes,_ he said to Draco.

“He’s telling you that he’ll say yes. We always wanted him to blink twice for yes. Now watch his mouth.”

Hermione and Ron looked at him expectantly, and Harry focused sharply on his mouth and did the same thing he’d done with Draco: he pushed out his tongue, slowly and deliberately. Twice. 

“Twice means yes.” Hermione sounded as though she were dreaming. “Twice means . . . oh, Harry!” Then Harry’s face was pressed into her breasts as she hugged him tightly. Just when he thought he might run out of air, she let go and looked him in the eyes instead.

“Ten years,” she whispered. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she couldn’t seem to decide whether to smile or to break out sobbing. “I . . . I’m so sorry, Harry. Maybe we could have done something, found out sooner that . . .”

_Don’t start that. I’m just happy it happened at all._

“He’s telling you that he is happy that it’s over, and not to dwell on it,” Draco said.

Hermione nodded, but gave in to crying quietly now, sitting down on the floor next to the wheelchair, her face buried in her hands.

Meanwhile, Ron hadn’t moved at all; he was still looking up at Harry like frozen.

_Draco, can you tell him something from me, word for word?_

“Sure.”

_All right. Tell him . . ._

“He says _You needn’t worry, Ron,_ ” Draco said, repeating each sentence when Harry had finished it. “ _I’m not angry. I might have reacted the same way. But it’s over now, and I’m not going anywhere, I never did. I wouldn’t leave my brother just like that._ ” He sounded awkward saying such intimate things to Ron and speaking his first name, but his voice was soft, and Harry was grateful that he made the effort.

Ron didn’t answer. Harry could see his Adam’s apple work as he swallowed hard, then he nodded abruptly and got up, letting go of Harry’s hand and rushing out of the room in long strides.

Harry’s first reaction was anger and a silent curse, but the look of pained sympathy on Draco’s face – one he’d never have imagined from him for Ron, even now – made him reconsider. 

_Can you go after him, please? I think you’re the one who understands him best._

Without a word, Draco got up and left the room as well, leaving Harry with Hermione, who was still sitting on the floor next to him. It took a minute or two, but then she seemed to pull herself together and got up again, wiping her eyes dry with a sleeve of her robes.

“He’ll need time,” she said now. “He always felt guilty, all these years, but he . . . he couldn’t be there. He couldn’t take it.”

Harry wished he could talk to her like he could to Draco, but all he could do was wait for her to ask questions. 

“Are you . . . God, I’ve got so many questions, but I think it might be better to wait until Draco comes back. I want to know what you actually want to say.” She frowned thoughtfully. “You know, we could make a chart with letters on it. We point at them and you can stick out your tongue at the letter you need. That way, you can spell, talk to others without Draco too. It will be slow, but it’s better than only saying yes and no, don’t you think?”

The idea was brilliant, and Harry signaled ‘yes’.

“All right. I’ll do that today. Now let’s best wait for Draco and Ron, then we can talk about what to do next together.” Hermione pushed the closes armchair next to the wheelchair and sat down in it, and after a moment of hesitation, she put her hand on Harry’s – at least she wasn’t afraid to touch him now, which was good. 

Surely ten or fifteen minutes must have passed before Draco and Ron returned, and when they approached them, Harry saw to his surprise that Draco was walking with his arm around Ron, who didn’t seem to mind it.

When they’d reached the wheelchair and Ron looked at him, Harry saw that he, too, must have been crying. Draco stepped away, and Hermione got up and put her hand on Ron’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her for a few moments before he turned back to Harry.

“Can . . . can you forgive me? I never meant . . . I just couldn’t see you like that. Not you.”

Harry didn’t even consider answering through Draco; Ron needed the answer to be directly from him. Focusing sharply, he signaled a ‘yes’.

Ron’s lips were pressed together tightly, and he was obviously fighting tears again. He didn’t say anything, but nodded slowly. When Hermione made him sit in the armchair with her and gently pulled his head against her chest, he didn’t resist, but held on tightly.

.-.-.-.-.

_Throwing this party was a brilliant idea of Teddy’s._

“It was. And everyone came; I don’t think the place was ever this full before.”

It was three weeks after Harry had managed to make telepathic contact with Draco, and the house looked like a battlefield: dirty dishes and leftover food were covering every surface in the living room, and there was an inch-thick layer of confetti on the floor.

_I hadn’t expected Percy would come here instead of the diplomatic ball in Moscow, though._

“Oh, he has a Time-Turner.” Draco chuckled. “He wouldn’t neglect his duties like that, not if he wants to become Minister after Floyd one day.” 

Harry and Draco were sitting in an armchair that Hermione had transfigured for them, making it wider so that they both fit into it perfectly, and adding an attached leg rest so it would be comfortable for Harry. He was leaning against Draco, with a thick pillow behind him and Draco’s arm around him, and on the telly in front of them the Battle on the Pelennor Fields was in full swing. They’d turned the volume off, though – both of them had watched the film at least half a dozen times, Draco in recent years and Harry before the kidnapping.

_I think it’s more than likely that he’ll be the next Minister. And he deserves it. He worked so hard these last years, Luna told me all about it._

“True. Oh, did she tell you that he was in a meeting on some internal Ministry business when he heard about you? His assistant went in and brought him the letter because Luna had sent the owl with the emergency code, and when he’d read it, he immediately declared the meeting postponed, ran out of the room and Flooed straight home. That was about ten minutes before they got the girls and came here.”

_I didn’t know, but I’d have loved to see their faces._

It hadn’t been an unusual reaction; most of their friends had pretty much dropped whatever they’d been doing and come straight to Grimmauld Place when they had head what had happened. Harry hadn’t minded, though – Draco had made sure that there was only ever one family at a time, making everyone promise not to spread the news, but to let Draco do it.

Most had been incredulous at first, but all of them overjoyed, and there had been a lot of tears and hugs and some versions of ‘We should have known’, which Harry and Draco had tried to quench as best as they could.

Mrs Weasley had barely been able to stop kissing Harry, while Ginny, quite atypically, had become so upset that she’d had to take a calming draught and lie down for a while. The ones who’d accepted it the quickest had been Luna, who had cried but smiled brilliantly all throughout it, and Frederica. When she had been told what had happened, Luna had insisted on getting the girls from Hogwarts for a few hours so they could visit with Harry. Adelaide, who’d never known him before this, had been smiling shyly and kept to the background. Frederica had kissed his cheek and whispered, “They wouldn’t believe me. Even Mum said we couldn’t possibly know and I shouldn’t talk about it in front of Uncle Draco, that it would only hurt him.” It hadn’t come as much of a surprise to Harry.

_Can you switch on the sound again? I like this part._

“Sure.”

They watched the rest of the film in silence, and a few times, Harry came close to dozing off. The party had been lovely, but he’d had to do a lot of concentrating and speaking through Draco, and telepathy was still exhausting him, though not quite as badly as during the first few days. 

When the closing credits were running, Draco switched off the telly. “Bed?” he asked. “It’s after eleven, and you look tired.”

 _Yes, bed._ Harry yawned widely. _I hope we can sleep through the night._

Draco’s hold on him tightened slightly, and his free hand closed around Harry’s left one. “Me too.”

The nightmares hadn’t changed at all, and while, on Harry’s insistence, Hermione as well as Luna had continued to sleep over once a week to give Draco some respite, Harry knew how hard it was on him to see him so terrified, even after years.

“Do you remember anything from when they had us?” Draco asked softly. He hadn’t touched upon the subject before.

 _Only bits and pieces. Laughing faces and voices. How you’d hold me and sing to me. And how they’d . . . how they’d hurt me, some of it. I don’t want to know more. Don’t tell me._ Harry shuddered, and Draco let go of his hand and began petting his hair.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked. “Anything you think might help?”

_You’re helping already. How you hold me and the singing . . . it makes me feel safe._

“Good.” Draco kissed his temple and went on stroking his hair in silence, and slowly, Harry relaxed again. He liked this, snuggling together, talking about anything and everything – painful subjects like this, sometimes, but also everyday conversations, like any couple would have them.

_You know, I was thinking I’d like a pet, someday. I didn’t want any for some years after my owl Hedwig died, but now . . . I thought something small and furry, maybe a cat or a Puffskein. Something that can sit on my lap._

“That sounds good,” Draco said. “Pets are nice. I always had one of our cats sleep in my bed when Voldemort was at the Manor. But no Puffskein,” he added after a few moments, “they’re ridiculous. They always remind me of those things in that space series. You know, the ones that look like fur balls and procreate by eating.”

_Tribbles? Yes, I see the similarity. Well, if it can’t be a Puffskein – have you ever thought what kind of Animagus you might be?_

“No. Why?”

_Oh, I just thought you might be a ferret. You would be small and furry, and you could sit on my lap. My own pet ferret named Draco._

“You’re –” Draco carefully pulled his arm away from around Harry and instead turned to look at him. “You’re a git,” he said. “After all these years, you’re still a git.” He was smiling, his eyes soft, and Harry felt a rush of love come towards him. “Harry . . . _Scarhead_. Never change, all right? I love you.”

_I love you too. Now will you kiss the git?_

They hadn’t before, hadn’t quite been ready, but now, Draco nodded. He leant in, gently wiping Harry’s open mouth with the bib in an almost casual motion, and kissed his upper lip. Harry tried to reciprocate, but failed, and still, it was lovely, and there was a flutter deep in his stomach. When Draco pulled away, Harry felt flushed and dizzy. They’d waited so long, and now, finally . . . It was, as he thought somewhat hazily, almost like in one of Draco’s romance novels.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Draco whispered. “There can be more kisses in bed.”

.-.-.-.-.

“And I tell you, if Hodgens hadn’t been sick, the Cannons would have won!” Ron insisted.

They were having tea in Ron and Hermione’s small, cosy kitchen after they’d returned from watching a Quidditch match. The Chudley Cannons had lost, foreseeably, by a landslide against the Appleby Arrows.

_You’ve been making up excuses for them since the nineties. The Arrows were better, it’s as simple as that. What part of 140 to zero before they caught the Snitch don’t you understand?_

Ron growled unhappily when Draco told him Harry’s answer. “Whittaker is a pathetic Keeper, it’s what I keep telling you. It wouldn’t have happened like that with Hodgens. Besides, the Arrows’ Seeker had some illegal work done on his broom. Something was fishy about it, I could see that, and I bet others did as well. It doesn’t get any faster than a Thunderclap – they came out only last year, but he was outflying Gillespie on that ragged Nimbus Flash.”

_And we’re at that stage again. Seriously, Ron, Gillespie can’t fly, that’s all, Thunderclap or no._

“Harry is right,” Draco added after relaying the answer. “Anyone could beat her, no matter their broom.”

“Right.” Ron sighed in frustration. “Well, will you come in two weeks? We’re up against the Falmouth Falcons then. We can’t lose _that_.”

_Stranger things have happened. But sure, I’ll come._

“Great.” With a smile, Ron squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “I really missed going with you. It just wasn’t the same.”

 _I missed it too._ And he had. For ten years, he hadn’t seen a single match, when before, he’d gone regularly three or four times a month, sometimes with Ron, sometimes with his colleagues.

Now, for the last four months, he’d gone to several games with Ron and Draco – and once only with Ron – and the atmosphere was as exciting as ever, even if he couldn’t see every move on the field, since he couldn’t turn his head. It was even worth the stares and whispers. Of course everyone knew who he was, and the news that he was, in fact, perfectly conscious had sparked a whole new wave of interest in him. Draco had had to chase reporters out of the house on more than one occasion, and still, they had managed to somehow obtain information and make it a headline. The only good thing coming out of it had been that the public’s perception of Draco had taken a turn for the better.

It had probably been a nurse or a Healer who’d sold the information – at St. Mungo’s, they’d been fussing over him for days when he’d come in for the examination Hermione had asked him to undergo, and even two of the Muggle doctors from back when he’d woken up first had returned. ‘Total locked-in syndrome’ was what they called his state, but he didn’t particularly care about names.

“I’ve got to throw you out, unfortunately,” Ron said now. “It’s late, and Ruskin will have my head if I’m not fully awake tomorrow morning.” He grimaced. “I’m supposed to give the Japanese a guided tour of the department. Honestly, I don’t know why I thought being her deputy would be a good idea. Now there’s all this diplomacy stuff instead of good clean Auror work.”

Draco chuckled. “That’s what you get when you follow in your brother’s footsteps. Just wait, in some years we will have Minister Weasley and Head Auror Weasley. The end of the Wizarding world is nigh.”

They all laughed at that, and not for the first time did Harry think how glad he was that finally, the tension between Ron and Draco appeared to have dissipated. Whatever they had talked about on that day when Ron had learnt that Harry was conscious, it had cleared the air once and for all. They almost behaved like friends these days. And to Harry’s great relief, he felt almost no resentment towards Ron anymore. He’d feared that he would, despite what he had told him, that it would hinder the rekindling of their friendship, and he hadn’t been entirely wrong. There had been – and still were – tense moments and even a fight on two occasions, but they were working on it, and he dared to hope that in a few years, they might be as close as they used to. He wanted it, and Ron seemed to feel the same.

“He is on to something, you know,” Draco said after he’d Flooed back to Grimmauld Place and Ron had Apparated Harry home as well and had left. “Something _was_ fishy about Shaikh’s broom, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.”

_You’re impossible._

“I know. It’s why you love me. Now let’s go upstairs, I’m tired. Do you want a bath before bed?”

_Sounds good._

Draco had said it casually, and Harry liked it; it was a big improvement from the initial uneasiness. They’d come a long way during the last eight months. It hadn’t been easy: like with Ron, there had been more than enough uncomfortable situations, discussions, and some fights as well, but they were both determined to build a new life for themselves, and slowly, with every day, they were growing together.

In bed, Harry sighed and closed his eyes as Draco began washing him. This had been awkward at first as well, but by now, baths replaced cleaning spells at last half of the time. The physiotherapist still came three times a week and worked on keeping Harry’s body from getting even more stiff and contracted, and it helped, but this was different, nicer. He never felt more relaxed than when Draco was massaging him with the warm, wet flannel, and it was only then that his hands would unclench at all.

Now, as the flannel slowly moved downward, Harry felt himself flush. Draco’s touches were so gentle, and he had long, slim fingers Harry was convinced would feel nice on his . . . 

Damn. 

Harry had an erection, and he felt himself flush even more. It was ridiculous, really, that he should be embarrassed. It had happened before, for years, and before they could talk, he’d never been bothered by it as much as he was now. And why was that? He didn’t mind Draco changing his nappies so much anymore, and he thoroughly enjoyed being washed like this, but the idea of anything to do with sex . . . 

“I know what you’re brooding about,” Draco said. “Really, you shouldn’t.”

Harry didn’t answer, and Draco didn’t push it but only went on with what he was doing, deliberately leaving out Harry’s groin, which he’d cleaned with a spell. Finally, Harry was clean and relaxed and Draco carefully rubbed him dry with a soft towel and manoeuvred him out of the bathing contraption. When he was done, though, he didn’t put a nappy on Harry, but sat down next to him on the bed to look at him. Luckily, they kept the room always comfortably warm.

_What is it? Why don’t you dress me?_

“I will, in a moment, I promise.”

From the way Draco was looking at him, Harry realised what this was going to be about, and he didn’t want to talk about it. He knew that they had to, but still, he didn’t feel prepared.

_Please, don’t do this._

“You’ve been avoiding the subject for weeks. Months. Harry . . .” Draco’s hand was warm and firm on his shoulder, and he gently kissed Harry on the mouth. “I know you’re attracted to me, sexually. It’s not only platonic love. You said it yourself.”

_I am. But you –_

“I am attracted to you, you know that. It’s been fifteen years since I fell for you.”

 _You were attracted,_ Harry corrected. _Back before I was like this. You can’t tell me –_

“I am telling you precisely that. I love you, I’m attracted to you. There is nothing strange about it. Disabled people can have sexuality in their lives.” He was stroking up and down Harry’s arm slowly, and Harry wished he’d stop – and that he’d go on, touch him more, in other places as well. “Remember, it was you who convinced me that there’s nothing embarrassing about seeing you naked and touching you, for either of us.”

_That’s different._

“Why? Tell me.”

_Just . . . at least put a blanket over me._

“All right.” Draco grabbed the covers and spread them over Harry. “Better?”

_Yes._

“I’m not lying, you know. I’m not trying to make you feel better.”

_But what do you see in . . . in that body? It’s . . . grotesque! It’s all right when you take care of me; I know you do that because you love me and because it has to be done. But sex . . . it’s not necessary._

“I see you, Harry. The man I love, and that’s reason enough. And don’t be so silly. You really think I’m only touching you because it’s necessary? I wonder how you could pass as many N.E.W.T.s as you did with such poor reasoning skills.” Despite the words, Draco’s voice was soft, and he tenderly rubbed his thumb over Harry’s cheek. “I got over that embarrassment, as you said you had. And now –”

_Now you want to tell me you’re wanting to fuck a skinny, paralysed cripple who drools and shits himself. That’s not very convincing._

“You should hear yourself! Don’t be such an idiot. And I don’t want to ‘fuck’ you. I don’t think that’s possible. All I want is to touch you and make you feel good.”

Why couldn’t he simply drop the subject?

“Harry.” Draco shifted on the bed so that he was leaning against the headboard and stuffed some pillows behind his back before he pulled Harry up against him, Harry’s head coming to lie against his chest as it always did when he comforted him after a nightmare. His hold was firm and comforting, and Harry let his eyes close and concentrated only on the love he sensed through the bond. There was no hesitation or even disgust, only love and the wish to be as close to him as possible. Draco was telling the truth, and Harry had known it for a while. It was he who was having the problem.

“I know that it’s hard,” Draco whispered in the end. “I can feel it. It’s become stronger these last weeks – not as much as you say it’s for you, but when I concentrate, I can feel a bit of what you feel as well.”

It had surprised them both when it had happened for the first time, but then they’d been glad about it. A mutual link was one more way to connect when they couldn’t do so many normal things.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

Harry sighed. _Yes._

“Then let me do this. Let me show you. I’ll stop the second you say so, but . . . please, Harry.”

_What if I’ll never be comfortable with it?_

“I hope that won’t happen. But if it does, well, I’ll have to accept that. You know I wouldn’t do anything against your will.”

 _I know._ Still, Harry didn’t like the idea, but he did trust Draco, and he did want to try. He did want proof for what Draco said. _All right._

“Thank you.” Draco didn’t move immediately, but kept holding Harry a while longer, and Harry could feel that he was sending him positive feelings through the bond: love, comfort. Desire. 

“I’ll lay you down now, and I’ll undress too, all right?”

_Yes._

Carefully, Draco settled Harry on the sheets, his head resting on one thick pillow. Then he got up and began, very slowly, to unbutton his robes. Harry watched with growing uneasiness, but also an undeniable flutter of anticipation. He had seen Draco naked before, but he’d never explicitly undressed for him, which he was quite obviously doing now. At 43, they were still young men by Wizarding standards, and bit by bit, as he peeled off his robes and underwear, he revealed a slim, pale body Harry was itching to touch. And there was his hard-on again.

“Ah. Admiring my beauty, I see.” Now fully undressed, Draco lifted the covers from Harry with a rather satisfied smirk. “Whatever you say with words,” he said as he climbed on the bed next to him, “your little friend here tells me that you want me. Badly.”

And Harry did. But at the same time, he wanted the covers back over himself, wanted to hide the useless, atrophied thing his body had become. He’d never felt so exposed and embarrassed with Draco before, except for when he’d come home at the very beginning.

“Shhh. It’s all right,” Draco whispered as he leant in to kiss him. “Close your eyes. Trust me.” His fingers caressed Harry’s cheekbone, wandering upwards into his hair, and Harry complied, closing his eyes. This was familiar and soothing. “Now try not to think, just feel.”

Harry did. The caresses on his hair went on, and Draco kissed his lips again, then his cheek. Slowly, he covered Harry’s face with kisses: his cheeks, temples, and forehead, and as he did it, Harry, bit by bit, relaxed a little. When Draco went on to his neck and his right shoulder, he tensed again, but didn’t say anything, instead focusing on Draco’s gentle touch and his feelings, which didn’t change.

The kisses wandered down his arm, and then from the elbow on up again towards the fist pressed against his chest. It was when Draco placed a soft kiss on it that the tears set in, quietly running down his cheeks. Draco must have noticed, because Harry felt worry through the bond.

 _Please, don’t . . . don’t stop._ Now, for reasons he wasn’t sure of himself, he felt that he couldn’t stand it if Draco were to stop. He needed this, needed the proof that Draco could love him, including his body, even like this. 

“I won’t.”

There was another kiss on his right hand, and then Draco moved to do the same with his left arm. Harry sighed softly, now more and more able to let go, let himself enjoy what was happening. Don’t think, just feel. Draco’s fingers were as gentle as always, as they were when he washed and dressed him, but now, all they did was caress, stroking tenderly over Harry’s arms, chest, and sides. For a while, Draco let both of his hands rest on Harry's stomach; they were warm, and Harry could feel their weight with every breath.

Then, without warning, Draco’s lips closed around Harry’s left nipple, and he gasped as Draco sucked and even teased a tiny bit with his teeth. He felt his breathing speed up, and then Draco’s hand wandered down to his half-erect cock, his fingers closing around it in a firm but gentle grip. Within moments, Harry was fully hard again. Then Draco began moving his hand.

_Oh God, yes._

It was incredible, and by now, Harry had stopped thinking completely. He barely noticed that he was gasping and shaking; there was only the feeling of Draco’s slow, rhythmic motions, filling his entire perception. And then, just when he thought he couldn’t take it any longer and wanted to tell Draco to go faster, damn it!, Draco did – and after a few firm, quick strokes Harry came with a deep groan, his entire body first jerking, then relaxing.

Draco’s hand disappeared, his weight shifted on the bed, and Harry was pulled into an embrace and a kiss was placed on his temple. Neither of them spoke as they waited for Harry’s breathing to settle and his body to stop trembling.

“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Draco asked in the end. When Harry opened his eyes, he saw that Draco was smiling at him, and he wished he could return it.

 _It was . . . thank you, Draco. I didn’t even know how much I needed this._ And he couldn’t really find the words to express it either, but Draco seemed to understand him all the same.

“See, you’re a perfectly normal man. A horny bugger, nothing changed about that,” he muttered, kissing Harry’s temple again.

_But what about you? I can’t . . ._

“Don’t start worrying now.” With that, Draco lay back against the pillow, so that they were lying next to each other, his arm still wrapped around Harry, Harry’s head lying on his shoulder. Harry saw that he reached down, and soon, Draco was moving next to him, his hips jerking, breath coming in soft gasps. It didn’t take long before he came as well, and again, they lay in silence for several minutes. Draco was warm against Harry's side, and Harry could feel him breathe, slow and rhythmical. 

“ _Accio_ , wand!” Draco commanded lazily, and when the wand came flying into his hand, he performed a cleaning spell on them both before he let go of Harry and sat up, leaning over him.

 _What were you thinking of?_ Harry wanted to know. _That one time when we —_

“Don’t be daft, Potter. Thinking really isn’t your forte, so you’d better stop it. I was thinking of our first kiss. The real one, not that time when we were drunk beyond reason. And of how much I love to see your face flushed like this, how I like to lie with you in my arm. What I want to do to you next time – not just with my hands, but with my mouth.” Draco grinned. “And I thought of the sound you made when you came, the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in a long time. It’s what made me come too.”

 _That’s unbelievably corny. Like you’re quoting directly from one of your dreadful romance novels._ And yet . . . _Tell me more, please._

Draco chuckled. “We have a convert.”

_A convert to the world of valiant knights and damsels in distress. So, who is the –_

Harry fell silent abruptly as a wet warmth flooded down his right thigh and soaked the sheets. For a few seconds, he couldn’t process what was happening, but when he realised it, all he wanted was to disappear into a hole in the ground.

_Fuck!_

He’d wet the bed. It had happened before, when Draco changed him, but there had always been the rubber sheet, and they’d never had _sex_ right before.

“ _Scourgify_!”

Harry barely noticed how the mess vanished, or how Draco got up and quickly but carefully put a nappy on him. When Draco slipped back into bed and pulled him into his arms, he was, once again, crying, but this time with shame.

“Harry. It’s not a big deal. It’s not the first time, remember.”

_We just . . . you’d just touched me! And what if – you said you wanted to give me a blow-job next time. Just imagine . . . This is precisely why I was against it! It’s disgusting!_

“Nonsense,” Draco said softly. “You can’t control it. It happened and now it’s over, and that’s the end of it. And we’ll figure something out. I’m sure there’s ways to make certain that it won’t happen right then. And even if it does, it’s not a big deal.”

_But what if –_

“No more ‘buts’. If our places were swapped, wouldn’t you tell me the exact same thing?”

 _I . . . yes,_ Harry had to admit. _But it’s humiliating. I know I told you it wasn’t, and that I’m not bitter anymore, but . . . sometimes I am. When something like this happens . . ._

“Then you’re asking yourself why it had to be you.”

 _Yes. Why me, and why like this? I used to be an_ Auror _! I used to take care of things, help people. And I promised I’d take care of you. And now look at me!_

Harry was surprised at his own frustration. It had been years since he’d felt quite so desperate about his situation, apart from the day when Draco had wanted to leave.

“But you are taking care of me.”

How? He couldn’t even _smile_ at Draco or properly kiss him, much less do anything to take care of him in whatever fashion.

“It’s true,” Draco said – he must have felt Harry’s disbelief. He made both of them lean comfortably against the pillows, positioning himself so that he could look Harry in the eyes. “You’ve been taking care of me for years. You saved my life when you saved me from the Fiendfyre, and you saved everyone including me again when you defeated Voldemort.”

Harry wanted to say something, but Draco didn’t let him. “When we were married, you always did your best to help me, even though I didn’t want it. And when I got kidnapped – you could have got out, then. You could have been free. But you tried to save me. And you did, in a way.” He meant it, Harry realised. He meant every word, and he’d have known also without being able to read Draco’s feelings – they were obvious in his eyes and voice.

“I’m not saying that it’s good what happened. That I didn’t wish it had been different. I do. I wish you’d woken up and been all right. But it is what it is now. And I need you, Harry. I need you to be there with me, to tell me you love me. To make stupid jokes and complain about what I read. To prevent me from doing something foolish. I still think of drinking every day, maybe I always will. You’re what keeps holding me back.” His voice was trembling as he cupped Harry’s cheek. 

“I didn’t think I could have this, but now I do. You are taking care of me. More than I ever thought anybody would. More than I thought I’d ever _let_ anybody.”

Harry believed him. There would be days when he wouldn’t, days when they’d have the same discussion over again, he knew it. But right now, he believed Draco, and he would remember that.

_I think that settles it, then. You’re the damsel in distress, and I’ve been your valiant knight all along._

“You git!” Draco laughed and sobbed at the same time, but all that Harry felt from him was love and happiness. “Yes, that settles it. And don’t you dare forget it.”

 _I won’t,_ Harry said. _I promise._

That night, he fell asleep in Draco’s arms, and there were no dreams.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“You can’t be serious!”

“Why not?”

Ginny was shaking her head, looking back and forth between Harry and Draco incredulously. “It’s too dangerous. Really, I mean, how could you even consider that?”

“When I mentioned it two weeks ago, you didn’t seem to mind.”

“I thought it was a _joke_ , Draco!”

“It wasn’t. We’re going right after breakfast; Hagrid is expecting us at eleven.”

They were having breakfast on Saturday with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny at Grimmauld Place – Neville was home minding a house full of sick children – and so far, it had been a pleasant affair. But now that Draco had mentioned where they’d be headed after Ginny would leave, the atmosphere was changing.

He should have known, Harry thought, that Ginny wouldn’t be happy with this at all.

“Hermione, tell me you didn’t know about this,” she demanded.

“I did. Ron and I will be Apparating them, plus we haven’t seen Hagrid and Buckbeak in almost a year. We’ll be catching up.”

“But how can you condone that?”

“It’s not my place to condone anything,” Hermione said. “I don’t like it much, that’s true. It’s dangerous, although they’re taking every possible precaution. But it’s also Harry’s decision, not mine – or yours.”

“I can’t believe it!” Ginny put down her cup rather forcefully and turned to Harry, who was sitting next to her. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

_Tell her yes, I’m very sure._

But Ginny shook her head when Draco said it. “I want it from Harry himself.”

 _Fine._ Harry concentrated and signaled a ‘yes’ – by now, almost two and a half years after he’d done it first, he hardly failed anymore.

“But . . . why? It’s a huge risk.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Draco said. “And you were all for the horse-riding after the first few times.”

“That’s different! Those are _therapy_ horses, they’re trained for this kind of thing. Buckbeak isn’t! And don’t tell me you don’t see the difference between riding and flying! Besides, the riding is actually useful, it helps. Flying . . . it’s not useful for anything. It’s not worth the risk. Was this your idea, Draco? Did you convince him to do it?”

_Get the letters chart, will you? And can you all leave us alone for a bit?_

Draco nodded and grabbed the laminated piece of cardboard with the letters on it that Harry used when he wanted to talk to somebody without Draco’s help.

“He wants to talk to you alone. We’ll be in the living room.”

“All right.” Ginny accepted the chart and while Draco and the others left, she held it up to Harry and began pointing at the letters, slowly, one after the other. It was a laborious affair, waiting each time until she had reached the right one, even though they were sorted into colour-coded groups, and mostly, when Draco was with them, Harry didn’t bother and talked through him. But it was necessary. Harry’d had enough – it wasn’t the first time Ginny was like this, and it was unnerving. Ever since Harry had mastered telepathy, she’d been overly worried. Draco had talked to her, as had Neville, Harry knew, but it hadn’t helped much.

 **I want this,** he now spelled out. **It was my idea. Draco was against it at first.**

“But it’s so dangerous, Harry.” Ginny sounded close to tears, and he hated doing this to her, but she had been strangely anxious about anything and everything he did – even going to Quidditch matches and working with the therapy horses to help relax his tight muscles hadn’t seemed like a good idea to her in the beginning.

**Flying is always dangerous. And Draco will be there. I won’t be alone. I trust him.**

“I do as well. It’s just . . .” she shrugged helplessly. “Why take the risk? It’s a miracle you’ve come back from your injuries the way you did. Why risk anything at all?” She reached out and put her hand on his right one. “I don’t want to lose you again, Harry. You’re my best friend, and the thought of you risking your life after you got this lucky . . .” She fell silent, and Harry wished that he could somehow take her fear away. It was so unlike her – she’d always been strong and brave in his eyes.

 **I know you’re scared,** he spelled. **I wish I could change that. But it’s my life. I don’t want to sit at home and do nothing only because something might happen. I thought I’d never fly again. Now I can, and I will. It’s my decision. You need to accept that. You need to stop treating me like a child.**

It took forever to spell all of it, and he already used only short sentences, saying less than he wanted to. While he did it, he saw how Ginny turned paler and paler, her freckles standing out starkly, lips tightening into a thin, colourless line. When he was done, she said nothing for a while, but only looked at him. It was the same look, he thought, that she’d given him when they had broken up: love and regret, but acceptance that they were doing the right thing, even if it hurt her.

“I know,” she finally murmured. “Neville has been telling me the same thing, and I know you’re both right. You’re an adult and can make your own decisions, and I shouldn’t treat you any different only because you’re disabled. You were an Auror when we were together, and that’s far more dangerous than this! I never minded that. I’m not sure what makes this so hard for me, but I’ll try. I just . . . I’ll need time to manage that. And probably more than one whack over the head.”

**I can give you both.**

She smiled ruefully. “Thank you, Harry.”

Just then, Draco entered the kitchen again. “Are you two all right? It’s been over an hour; it’s almost eleven. We’ve got to go.”

“We’re fine,” Ginny said. “Harry gave me a good talking to, and I deserved it.” She got up from her seat and kissed Harry’s cheek. “I’ll go and help poor Neville with the kids. Robert is a little devil when he’s sick. You . . .” She drew a deep breath. “You go and have fun, Harry. And tell me all about it later.”

_Tell her I will._

When Draco had said it, she hugged him tightly. Harry heard her whisper something, and Draco nodded. She’d probably told him to take good care or else, Harry suspected.

“So,” Draco said, when she had left the kitchen to Floo back home and he took the handles of the wheelchair to bring Harry to the living room, “are you ready?”

_More than ready. I almost can’t believe I’m going to fly!_

“I thought it was ludicrous at first. To be honest, I still do. But that has never stopped you before.”

_Right, so why should it now?_

They arrived in the living room, where Ron and Hermione were waiting for them. Only a few moments later, they Apparated right in front of the gates of the Hogwarts grounds. Most students were gone for the summer holidays – Harry had insisted that if they were going, it had to be at a time when there would be no curious eyes.

“There yeh are!” boomed a deep voice – it was Hagrid, who, as Harry could see, was hurrying towards the gates to greet them. “It’s good ter see yeh – ‘specially you, Harry!”

He was smiling brightly, and Harry felt as happy. It had hit Hagrid hard when he’d heard of what had happened, and during his few short visits over the years during which everyone had believed Harry to be in a vegetative state, he’d always seemed miserable.

“I’ve got Buckbeak all ready at the edge of the Fores’. There’s still a handful of kids left, and they like visitin’ me. Didn’ want them ter disturb us.”

“That’s perfect,” Draco said as they all entered through the gates and began heading where Hagrid led them. Hermione had put a spell on the wheelchair so it would easily glide over the grass instead of getting stuck. “Do you think he will recognise Harry after all these years? If not . . . well, he obviously can’t bow to him.”

“Oh, no need ter worry. Buckbeack’s the smartes’ Hippogriff I’ve ever seen. He knows Harry all right, ye’ll see.”

Harry hoped that Hagrid was right. Hippogriffs lived long lives – up to 40 years – and they were definitely intelligent, but still, it had been over ten years since he’d last seen Harry.

They walked for a while, exchanging news and catching up until they reached the Forest, where Harry could make out Buckbeak from afar already. As they came closer, the Hippogriff stayed where he was, and Harry could see that he was tied to a tree on a long leash.

“Now we’ll see if he still knows yeh, Harry. But Draco should go firs’.”

Over the last month, Draco had been here three times a week to get to know Buckbeak and learn flying on him as best as he could before he’d do it with Harry. In the beginning, he had been worried that Buckbeak might not accept him, considering past events, but they’d been lucky, and he’d told Harry that the two of them were a good team.

“It’s amazing,” he’d said, “completely different than riding a broom. And it’s great to fly again.” He, too, hadn’t flown in years, even longer than Harry. Commanding a broom did not belong to the household magic former Death Eaters were capable of.

Now he slowly approached Buckbeak, who screeched softly and lowered his head so Draco could easier pet him.

_Seems you two have become friends after all._

Draco turned around with a smile. “Well, let’s see if he recognises another old friend.”

Hagrid untied the leash, and he and Draco slowly led the Hippogriff over to Harry, who watched with some measure of trepidation. A few feet before him, Buckbeak halted, tilting his head and looking down at Harry curiously.

“It’s Harry,” Hagrid said. “You oughta remember him.”

Buckbeak continued to look at him for several long moments, and when Harry already feared that he didn’t remember and might not accept to have him on his back if they should try, he once again screeched softly, then took a few steps forward and, very slowly, lowered his head to put it against Harry’s shoulder. As the feathers tickled his neck and cheek, Harry felt a rush of happiness – it was good to be accepted by an old friend, even if this was only an animal. And it meant that they could try flying after all.

“Told yeh,” Hagrid said. “He wouldn’ forget Harry. Not the one who saved his life.”

“Then it’s really happening,” Ron said. “This is amazing, mate.”

It really was.

_So, are we doing this like with the horses? You get up first, and then me?_

“Yes, that is the plan,” Draco said. “Come on, Buckbeak, let’s get started.” He guided the Hippogriff away from Harry and mounted him with the help of an old tree trunk.

“Do you want to be levitated?”

 _No, I don’t think so._ At the stables, with the therapy horses, the Muggles had a contraption that lifted Harry up on the animal, and although he knew levitation would be perfectly safe, somehow he trusted solid matter more. _Can you ask Hagrid if he’ll carry me?_

As Harry had expected, Hagrid was happy that he could do something, and he carefully lifted him from the wheelchair after Hermione had undone the belts which held him safely in place. Even as a grown man, he was tiny in comparison to Hagrid, and it felt odd to be lifted up into his arms like a child.

“Here yeh go. Ready, Draco?”

Very carefully, Hargid settled Harry on Buckbeak’s back in front of Draco, following Draco’s instructions of how to spread and position Harry’s legs to the letter. Harry knew that he was lucky: many people in this condition would never be able to sit on a horse – or a Hippogriff – like this. Their legs were as stiff and contracted as his arms. But he’d been spared that, and the constant annoying physiotherapy had done its part in keeping it like this.

“All right, I’ve got him,” Draco said when he had his arms safely wrapped around Harry, who was leaning against him.

A few minutes later, Harry and Draco were tied to Buckbeak – who’d let it all happen patiently, as if he knew precisely why this was necessary – with a leather harness Hermione had conjured up, and Draco was holding Harry with one arm, while holding the leash around Buckbeak’s neck with the other hand.

“I think you’re ready,” Hermione said. “It should be safe, but just in case I’ve put tracking charms on Buckbeak and both of you, and _if_ you were to fall, there are floating charms as well. You should come down slowly without being hurt.” Still she sounded uncomfortable – there could always be some unforeseeable danger. “Be careful.”

“We will.” Harry felt Draco behind him take a deep breath as if to gather courage. “Ready, Harry?”

_Yes. I feel a bit as if this time, you’re my valiant knight, taking me off on your white stallion._

“All right, then, my lady.” Draco chuckled, ignoring the others’ confused looks. “Off we ride into the sunset.”

He signaled Buckbeak, and the Hippogriff began walking – slowly first, like Draco had taught him, to get Harry used to his movements, then quicker after a couple dozen feet, until he was running, and finally, he spread his large wings and took off the ground.

It was breathtaking, like the first time Harry had ridden him – only this time, it was even better. The wind was tearing at their clothes and hair, the ground disappeared below, and as far as Harry could see, there was only the blue sky in front of them. He’d always loved flying, had always felt free when he was in the air. He’d almost forgotten it during the last eleven years; it had become more and more distant until it was only a memory.

Now he was flying again, was free again, and the element of danger only added to that. He wasn’t safe at home in bed or in his wheelchair – he was racing through the sky, doing one of the things he’d always loved best. It filled him with a wild joy he couldn’t keep to himself, and when he laughed out loud, Buckbeak screeched in return and Draco tightened his hold. Harry felt a flood of love and joy from him, and he sent the same feelings back through the bond.

He didn’t know how long they were flying, and he didn’t care. All he wanted was to focus on the moment, on every gust of wind, every turn they took, every flap of Buckbeak’s wings that carried them higher. Finally, though, he noticed that they were slowly descending, the trees of the Forbidden forest appearing in front of them.

“We’ve got to get down now,” Draco called behind him. “But we can come back now that we know it works!”

Harry wished that they could go on longer, but he knew it wasn’t a good idea. It was a warm summer day, but the wind up high had chilled him, and while he hadn’t paid attention to it before, now he realised that he was sore and exhausted. By evening, every muscle in his body would be hurting. But it had been worth it, and he’d definitely want to do this again.

As they approached the ground, he saw two tiny and one bigger figure, which soon turned into Hagrid, Ron, and Hermione, who were looking up at them. When Buckbeak had landed and come to a stand, all three of them came running towards them.

“How was it?” Ron wanted to know.

_Brilliant!_

Ron grinned when Draco told him Harry’s answer, and Hermione smiled as well.

“You’re glowing,” she said. “I wish Ginny could see this. She should come with next time. This was a good idea.”

Harry agreed. Ginny should come, and maybe she could even fly with him someday. For now, though, while he was sad that it was over, he was also relieved when Hagrid lifted him off Buckbeak and gently settled him down into the wheelchair again. Back home, he’d ask Draco to bring him to bed – the adrenaline rush was slowly abating, and he felt as if he could sleep for the rest of the day.

Buckbeak had come to stand close to the edge of the Forest under a large tree, and Draco, who had been standing with him and petting his head, now made to walk over to Harry. He was looking happy, with his cheeks flushed and his hair ruffled from the wind, and Harry was thinking how good-looking he was. Just when he wanted to tell Draco thank you for agreeing to this, he saw the movement at the upper periphery of his vision.

It was a giant spider, letting itself fall from the tree right onto Draco. There was no time to call out, tell him to duck or run – he’d never make it in time, it was happening too quickly. At the same time, though, everything seemed to slow down before Harry’s eyes. Draco raised his hand to his hair, laughing at something Hagrid was saying, while the spider was only inches away, right over his head. Then, abruptly, just when it was about to hit him, Draco jerked backwards and flew several metres through the air as if he’d been pushed by a powerful force. Time returned back to normal. He landed in the grass on his back while only moments later, a flash of light hit the spider.

“ _Arania Exumai_!”

The spider flew through the air as well, being thrown against the trunk of a tree, and when it had barely managed to get up again, Harry saw Ron run towards it, waving his wand. “ _Arania Exumai_!”

Again, the spider was thrown back, and this time, it turned and fled back into the forest, Ron running after it. Harry didn’t pay any more attention to it; he focused completely on Draco, who was still lying on his back and from whom he could feel confusion and shock.

 _Draco? Are you all right? Are you hurt?_ Damn, why couldn’t he run over to him? _Talk to me!_

Slowly, Draco sat up, holding his head and looking around him in obvious confusion. Hermione came rushing to his side, saying something to him Harry couldn’t understand. He replied, then shook his head when she spoke again and, to Harry’s great relief, got up with her help.

 _Are you okay?_ Harry asked again, and now Draco looked over at him.

“I’m fine!” he called and began walking, Hermione letting go of his arm. When he arrived with Harry, he put his hand over Harry’s right fist. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “You needn’t worry. Only a bit shocked. Hermione told me it was one of the spiders. If Ron hadn’t pushed me out of the way . . .”

“Wasn’t me,” Ron interrupted, who, as Harry noticed, had come back to them. “I only noticed that horrible thing when Draco was out of the way already. I don’t think it’s coming back, by the way.”

“Then it was Hermione. Thank you.”

“No.” She sounded confused. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Me either,” Hagrid said. “Didn’t even see it comin’, blasted beast. They’re getting’ more and more bold. I need ter do somethin’ about ‘em.”

“Well, I didn’t see it either,” Draco said. “And I certainly couldn’t have jumped backwards like that, even if I had. Somebody pushed me. And if it wasn’t any of you three, that leaves only . . .”

Harry needed a few moments to realise what Draco meant – by then, they were all staring at him incredulously.

_But that’s nonsense! It’s impossible!_

Or was it?

“I think I’ve got an explanation,” Hermione said later that afternoon, when they were all back at Grimmauld Place. Harry had done his best to stay awake while she, Draco, and Ron had sifted through the books at the family library to maybe find something that would shed some light on the affair, but he had been too exhausted. In the end, he’d given up and slept deeply for almost five hours.

Now they were all in the kitchen again, where Hermione had put a thick leather-bound book on the table.

“Wandless magic is hard,” she said, “but not impossible. A strong witch or wizard can learn it without too much of a struggle, for example Headmistress McGonagall. The same goes for wordless magic, where you only use your wand but don’t speak the incantation out loud. Wandless _and_ wordless magic, though, that’s different. Only the strongest witches or wizards can master it, people like Dumbledore and Grindelwald – or Voldemort. Snape seemed to have at least basic skills as well. Now, assuming it was you, Harry: you were a capable wizard, but you were never that strong. I think you could have learnt wandless or wordless magic if you had set your mind to it and practised hard, but not both at once.”

Harry agreed with her. There had been a time when people had believed that he was incredibly powerful, because he had vanquished Voldemort as an infant. But it wasn’t true, and he had always been glad about it. Too much power had never been something he’d found desirable.

“So, as to how this could happen . . .” Hermione took a sip of her tea and tapped the open page of the book. “It says here that there are special circumstances in which somebody’s magical powers can increase greatly. One of those is the sharing of magic. Usually, when two or more people bundle their magic to achieve something together that they couldn’t do alone, it requires preparation – certain meditations and a lot of practice. There are specific rituals, too.”

She looked up from the book and at Harry. “From here on, this is all speculation; the article says it’s only hearsay and happened maybe two or three times during the last centuries. But apparently, a Blood Bond can enable the partners to share their magic more easily. If it was really you who pushed Draco, this might be what happened. Now, this is my own theory, and we’ve got no means to find out if it is what happened, but I’m thinking that it was really you, using your and Draco’s magic together.”

“But how?” Draco wanted to know. “I thought we weren’t compatible enough to form such a deep bond – I can’t send my thoughts to Harry like he can with me, and it’s much harder for me to sense his feelings.”

“Well, as I said, this is all speculation, but I believe the connection is stronger for Harry because he needs it. Remember what Luna told us about that? It was in her book as well.”

Draco nodded.

“All right,” Hermione went on. “Think about this: Harry might have subconsciously picked up on your emotions even before his injury. But it was only later, after you’d accepted your feelings for him and were showing them to him openly, that he managed to deliberately establish a connection. You’d become closer, and that strengthened the bond. When you wanted to leave and Harry finally realised that he loved you as well, it was strong enough that it only needed this realisation to enable him to reach you. At least that’s what I believe – it deepened the bond again. And you said it yourself, by now you can sense something from him when you try. That could only happen because you’ve grown even closer. And now, when you were in danger . . .”

“It went one step further, that’s what you want to say, right?”

“Yes. It seems like the most logical explanation.”

Harry had listened without interrupting. The idea was far-fetched, but incredibly exciting. If he could perform magic, that would mean he’d no longer be helpless. He could do things without depending on others completely. But only if . . .

_Do you think this was a single occurrence? Maybe it only happened because I was so scared for Draco that it made it possible for me to draw from his magic._

Hermione shrugged when Draco said it. “I don’t know. Nobody has ever dealt with anything like it in our lifetimes. All you can do is try.” She pointed at Harry’s feeding cup in front of him, which had held chocolate potion earlier. “How about you try and move the cup?”

Could he? She was right, there was only one way to find out. Harry concentrated, focusing on the cup until he thought his head might explode, willing it to move just the tiniest bit.

Nothing happened.

Damn, but he wanted this! It was something he’d never even conceived of, and to think it had happened once and never would again . . . Harry focused on how he had felt when he’d seen the spider attacking. It had been so close to Draco, had almost reached him, could have done Merlin knows what to him –

The cup flew over the table and smashed against the wall.

Hermione flinched in her seat; Draco shot up from his chair and hugged Harry tightly. “You did it! You really . . . this is amazing!”

When he’d let go of him, he looked Harry in the eyes with a brilliant smile, and Harry felt joy radiating off him.

“It is,” Hermione said. “And there’s a good chance that you can learn how to control it, with time.”

Harry himself felt dizzy and barely able to think. He could use magic again! If he could gain control over it, he’d have some measure of independence. Not as much as if he weren’t disabled, but it would make a huge difference.

 _I’ll practise,_ he told Draco. _Every day, starting right now. I will do this._

“You will, I know you will.” Draco was still beaming, and Harry felt as if he’d never loved him as much as right now, when he was so obviously happy for him.

Life was good already, but now it was going to get even better.

.-.-.-.-.

_I can do it, you needn’t watch every second._

“Are you sure?” Draco was watching him with a worried frown, and Harry wished he would leave the room or at least stop fussing.

_I am sure. I’ve been doing it for three weeks straight now, remember?_

He’d been eating alone every single meal, levitating the feeding cup or the spoon with just the right speed and angle. Over the last year, he'd managed to swallow on his own more and more often, and by now he only had to ask Draco to help him do it a handful of times every meal. Still, Draco wouldn't stop watching him like a hawk. Harry didn’t get it. Shouldn’t he have realised by now that it was working perfectly fine?

“Yes, I know.” Hesitantly, Draco turned back to his cereal, leaving Harry to levitate the cup’s spout once more into his mouth.

It had been a year since they had discovered that he could perform magic, and since then, he’d worked on controlling those skills every day. It had gone slowly, and in the beginning, like the empathy and the telepathy, it had tired him out completely. By now, though, he’d got used to it and it didn’t drain him anymore.

For the first about eight months, it had been hit-and-miss a lot of the time: objects wouldn’t move, or when they did, they’d fly wildly across the room and crash into walls and furniture – and people. Once, Harry had given himself a black eye, and there had been one time when a fork had ended up sticking in Draco’s forearm, making him bleed and swear like a trooper. But Harry had managed to hone his skills, and now, if he wanted to, he could reach out with magic and even switch on the lights or the telly.

At some point a few days ago, he’d begun actually feeling the objects as if he were touching them with magical hands, not just simply making them move by sheer force of will. It had given him an idea, something he wanted to test soon. If this worked, it would be a wonderful surprise for Draco.

Although, truth be told, lately Harry often felt more irritated with him than anything. Draco had been so excited and happy, but over the last few weeks, for whatever inexplicable reason, that happiness seemed to have dwindled more and more. He was quieter than usual and often irritated, snapping at Harry without reason. Whenever Harry asked him, he said he was fine, but it was clear that he wasn’t telling the truth. There wasn’t really anything Harry could do, though, and so he had decided to wait until Draco would bring up whatever his problem was.

Taking another sip of potion, Harry gagged and ended up gasping and coughing, spitting potion over himself. Immediately, Draco’s attention was with him and he was rubbing Harry’s arm soothingly.

 _Thank you,_ Harry said when the worst was over.

“Are you all right?”

_Yes._

Draco took the cloth they kept on the table for such instances and began cleaning Harry’s face, and while Harry knew he only wanted to help and that after so many years it was second nature to him, he couldn’t help but resent it.

_I can do that._

As he said it, Draco stopped in mid-motion and looked at him silently for a few moments. Then he dropped the cloth on Harry’s lap and abruptly turned away, returning to eating his cereal.

_What’s wrong? Is there a problem?_

“Nothing. I’m hungry, and you don’t need the help, you said it yourself.”

 _Right._ This wasn’t the first time Draco had reacted like this to him saying that he could do something, and Harry did nothing to hide his irritation, but instead deliberately sent it through the link. From Draco, he felt frustration and hurt, and he had no idea why.

_If you want to talk about it –_

“I don’t. Can you finish? I’d like to paint when we’re done.”

_Right. Whatever._

Harry didn’t really feel hungry anymore, but he knew that he had to eat properly. He couldn’t afford to skip meals.

When Draco had finished his cereal and tea, and Harry, too, was done with the potion, Draco brought Harry upstairs – so far, Harry couldn’t move the wheelchair on his own. Together with his weight, it was too heavy for him. Upstairs, Harry brushed his teeth alone while Draco did the same. It was tricky, because he needed good coordination, but he managed it better and better each day.

There were restrictions, though, to what he could do. At first, he’d imagined that at some point he might be able to clean himself with cleaning spells, spare Draco the business of changing his nappies, but so far, it hadn’t worked, for more than one reason.

One obstacle was that apparently, he could only perform a specific kind of magic. He could touch, move, and levitate objects, but nothing else. No cleaning spells, no _Lumos_ , not even the simple household magic Draco was capable of. Hermione thought that this might be the very reason: Draco’s magic was so restricted that it wasn’t strong enough to allow Harry to perform any more complicated spells.

The other problem was that he couldn’t use magic to move any part of his body. Initially, he had dared to hope that maybe, he might be able to levitate himself one day. But by now, he was almost certain that it wouldn’t happen. He’d not managed to move even a finger or toe, and he still couldn’t keep his mouth closed, no matter how hard he tried.

It seemed that he would always need somebody to take care of his physical needs, but while he’d been disappointed when he had realised it, he’d found that he didn’t mind all that much – not when it was Draco. After all, he had never thought he would be capable of what he could do now, and he had been convinced that he would be happy.

 _Can you bring me to bed in the living room?_ he asked when they were both done. _I’d like to read._

Since he was able to turn the pages of books with magic, Harry had been reading a bit every day. He hadn’t enjoyed reading as much before his injury, but the mere fact that he could do it after he hadn’t for such a long time had made it more desirable.

“Sure.”

Without saying anything else, Draco brought him downstairs again and got him settled in the nursing bed, the mattress elevated at a comfortable angle for reading, so that he was more sitting than lying. He’d built Harry a contraption that could be fastened onto the rails of the bed and that could hold a book, much like a music stand holding sheet music. Now he put it into place and put the book Harry was reading on it – not a romance novel, but a murder mystery involving a famous team of Aurors.

When he was done, their cat Athena jumped onto the bed and curled up against Harry’s side. She was a gorgeous Russian Blue Draco had bought a year ago, and her favourite pastime seemed to be sleeping on or at least close to Harry.

“Anything else?”

_No._

“Fine. I’ll be in the painting room. Call if you need anything.”

The thought ‘Not that you will’ hovered just at the edge of Harry’s perception as Draco stalked out of the room, and it annoyed him to no end. How could Draco _resent_ the fact that he could do things on his own, that he didn’t need his help anymore for even the tiniest thing? What was his problem?

Harry sighed as he made the book open where he’d left off the day before. If nothing changed, he would have to push Draco to talk. He’d had enough of the constant bickering. It couldn’t go on like this.

Later that day, after Harry’s afternoon nap, he and Draco left for Luna and Percy’s place – it was August 22nd and Percy’s 49th birthday, and he had invited them as well as some other friends and family members for the afternoon.

“Next year, I won’t be able to refuse a big celebration at the Ministry,” he said as they were having cake and tea on the patio, “not if I want to have a shot at becoming Minister after Floyd retires, and he’s talking about moving to Goa and leaving all the Ministry stress behind in about five years. But for now, I’ll enjoy celebrating in a small circle.”

“He does like his achievements praised, but people simply celebrating that he’s here and they love him still isn’t his thing,” Luna murmured to Harry. “He loves it, but he’d rather keep it to a trusted few.”

**I get that. I hated all the stupid victory celebrations they tried to drag me to after the war.**

“Yes, I remember. None of us liked them,” Luna said after she’d read what he had written on the notepad floating in front of him. The letters were large and crooked and looked like a child’s printing, but Harry was beyond happy that two weeks ago, he had mastered writing legibly on a notepad with pencil.

Now, finally, he could have conversations without relying on Draco as long as he was close by, and without using a method that took forever, even if he only wanted to say something short. The letters chart was only used when he was alone with his friends and couldn't access Draco's magic, and this was the first time that many of them saw him writing. They were all impressed and happy, and Harry was surrounded by people for the better part of about three hours and didn’t see much of Draco.

The summer holidays were not over yet, and so Frederica was home, and Harry ended up talking with her about school and about Adelaide, who was showing the same brilliance and dedication for schoolwork as Percy had at her age.

“I’d never have the patience to write a five feet essay on which impact the season in which it’s gathered has on potions that are brewed with tree bark,” she said. “But Adelaide loves it, she gets all excited about these things. She wishes I’d get it, but I kind of zone out after a while if she goes on for too long.” She shrugged with a small smile. “She doesn’t get mad, though. She knows I’m trying, and the others in her house give up much earlier, although she’s in Ravenclaw.”

 **She sounds a lot like your father,** Harry wrote. **I remember when I stayed with your grandparents for the holidays once, he was working very hard on a report on the thickness of cauldron bottoms.**

Frederica laughed. “That sounds like him. I think it’s lovely that they can get into these things and be so happy about it.”

They talked a little longer, until she left because Luna called her inside to do some dishes. Only a few minutes later, Neville came to Harry to tell him about the progress his parents were making. The potion which he had mentioned to him over ten years ago had finally, after many failed attempts and improvements, caused them to acknowledge and understand the people around them intermittently. When Neville had told his father who he was, he’d been met with shock at his age, but also a tight embrace.

**That’s wonderful. I’m very happy for you, and for them.**

“It’s also a bit strange,” Neville said. “I never believed it would happen anymore.”

He wanted to say something else, but was interrupted by Frederica.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Neville, but I need to talk to Uncle Harry. It’s important.” She sounded serious, and both Neville and Harry knew better than to dismiss her. If she said something was important, then it usually was.

“I’ll tell you more later,” Neville said and got up to give them some privacy.

**Is something wrong?**

“Yes, it’s Uncle Draco.” She pushed Neville’s chair away so that she could stand where it had been and look Harry in the eyes. “He’s sitting in Dad’s study, and he’s very unhappy. I can’t be completely sure, but I believe he’s thinking of going home and drinking.”

**Why?**

Could it be this bad without him having noticed?

“I don’t know, but it has to do with you. And with him.” She frowned as she tried to explain. “It’s hard to put these things into words when they’re not even my own feelings. All I know is that he’s been unhappy for weeks and he needs you, but he doesn’t want to talk to you. I think you should go to him.”

Harry didn’t feel like it; he was having a nice afternoon and didn’t want a confrontation. But he couldn’t ignore this, and if Draco was doing as badly as Frederica said, then Harry wanted to be there and help despite the unsolved tension between them. Maybe today would be the day to clear things up after all.

**All right, I’ll go. Can you bring me?**

“Yes. But can you promise me something?” She looked and sounded so worried that Harry agreed without thinking twice.

**Yes. What?**

“Even if you get angry, don’t let it turn into a fight. I can’t say why or how, but I know it would end very badly. It would . . . destroy something, something important. Don’t let it happen. Please.”

**I promise.**

What she’d said worried Harry more than only a little. What could possibly be wrong that might turn into such a serious fight?

“Good. And . . . the surprise you have for him? Whatever it is, give it to him tonight. He needs it. There’s more wrong than only this.”

How did she know about that, too? Sometimes, if he hadn’t known her, Harry would find her almost eerie. It was a good decision that Luna and Percy had made her take Occlumency lessons for the last five years and taught her that it was important not to let others outside the family know just how much she was picking up. Most people wouldn’t like or understand it.

**If this talk goes well, then I will.**

Frederica nodded. “You need to wipe your chin,” she said.

Harry flushed slightly. That he could do it by himself now didn’t mean that he always noticed when it was necessary. When he’d done it, she stepped behind the wheelchair, turned it and wheeled him off the patio and into the house. Fortunately, the place was spacious and they had no problems getting around and through the doors.

The door to the study was closed, but Harry opened it without leaving Frederica time to knock. When she pushed him inside, he saw Draco on the couch on the right side of the room, leaning forward, his head buried in his hands. He didn’t look up, although he must have heard them.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Frederica whispered when she’d positioned the wheelchair so that Harry could look at Draco’s face, and with that, she left the room and closed the door behind her.

Watching Draco and reaching out to him empathically, Harry was now certain that it was just as bad as she had made it sound. How could he have missed it? Draco didn’t know how to shield his emotions, and although Harry had made it a point not to snoop when Draco didn’t appear to want him to know, he couldn’t help feeling strong emotions from him, like the worry and irritation he’d often sensed since about three months ago. 

And there had been all the bickering and snappy remarks. Harry should have paid more attention. Had he been too caught up in the excitement of being able to do all these new things, now that he had firm control over his magical abilities? But then, Draco should know better than to keep brooding without telling Harry the reason. It wasn’t Harry’s task to keep constant track of his husband’s feelings.

_Draco?_

No answer.

_Draco, we need to talk. I think it should have happened weeks ago._

He didn’t even move.

_Don’t do this to me. Don’t shut me out. It’s not fair. We promised each other we’d make this work, and right now, I’m worried that might change. Frederica made it sound rather serious._

That got Draco’s attention: he slowly raised his head. Harry was struck by how tired he was looking. Had it be the same in the morning?

“What did she tell you?”

_Not much. That you were unhappy and that you might be thinking of going home and drinking._

“That’s none of her business!” Draco snapped. “She should stop snooping around in other people’s minds!”

_Don’t. You’re not truly angry with her. This is about me, about us._

“And how do you know that? Does everything have to be about you? Don’t I have a life beside you?”

 _Don’t be so . . ._ Harry caught himself before he said something he’d regret. He didn’t want this to turn into a fight; he believed Frederica when she’d said that it would end badly.

 _I know it because she said it, and she is rarely wrong about these things,_ he answered instead. _And because if it weren’t about us, you’d tell me about it, ask my advice and let me help._

“You can’t,” Draco said flatly. “It’s my problem.”

_You’re my husband, in case you hadn’t noticed. That makes it my problem as well._

“Just stop it, all right?” A wave of frustration rolled over Harry, and Draco raked all ten fingers though his hair in an impatient gesture. “It’s dumb and silly, and I don’t know why I’m like this in the first place. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t feel like this, not when you . . .” He fell silent with a groan and shook his head.

_So it is about us._

Draco said nothing, but he nodded softly.

_And it’s dumb and silly, you say. So much so that you can’t tell me?_

Draco pressed his lips together, and Harry realised that he was fighting tears.

_Please, Draco. There’s nothing you can’t tell me. Nothing I wouldn’t tell you. I thought you knew that. Whatever it is, we can figure it out together._

“Fuck this!” Abruptly, Draco got up from the couch, glaring down at Harry. “I’m going home! I can’t stand your schmaltzy babble one more second!”

 _Fuck_ you _! Yes, run away like a coward when I can’t . . ._

Without warning, a thunderstorm of emotions rained down on Harry – love, fear, doubt, regret – and there was more, something else, something he’d never experienced before. For a split second, it was as if he could actually read Draco’s mind, emotions _and_ thoughts combined – and when it was over, he knew what this was all about.

_You can’t be serious. Do you really believe that?_

“What?” Irritated, Draco shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

 _You’re afraid I’m_ using _you?_

All colour left Draco’s face, and he sank down on the couch again, looking almost like a deer caught in headlights.

_How can you believe that? After everything . . . how can you . . ._

He had to stay calm, Harry told himself. It wouldn’t help one bit if he started making accusations, although he wanted nothing more than to tell Draco what precisely he was thinking of his idiocy. But then, Draco thought exactly the same.

 _All right._ Harry breathed deeply, trying to think. _So, let me get this straight. You were happy for me when we found out I could perform magic. And you were excited when I actually managed to do it again and got better at it. But when I began doing things by myself, you found that you didn’t like it as much as you’d thought. Right so far?_

Draco didn’t move or speak for some moments, but finally, he nodded unhappily.

_Why? Tell me. I can try and figure it out from what I felt from you, but it’s hard. I don’t want to get the wrong idea._

“I . . . oh, Merlin, I’m not even sure myself. It’s so stupid.”

It was, but Harry wouldn’t say that so Draco could hear it.

_Try. I won’t bite your head off. And how about you come over to me?_

With a sigh, Draco got up and walked around the coffee table, pulling Percy’s office chair next to the wheelchair so he could sit down in it, although he lowered his head and didn’t look Harry in the eyes.

“I know it is ridiculous,” he muttered. “I should be happy. I used to think about it so often, how I wished you were all right, that you could walk, that we could be like any normal couple. Before I knew you were even aware, I thought it would already make me happy if you were healthy and didn’t love me. We could have been friends and it would have been enough, just seeing you healthy would have been enough. And when you talked to me and told me you loved me . . .” He shook his head. “I was happy. We were both happy, I could feel that from you. Am I not right?”

_Yes._

“And now that we’re closer to what I used to want, I should be happier, right? You are. Of course you are. You don’t need me to do everything for you anymore. I can’t even imagine how it must have been, to have to rely on someone else for everything. Even somebody who loved you. It’s why I was so glad when we first found out about you using magic, because you wouldn’t need me for everything anymore. But somehow . . . somehow, that’s precisely it.”

_That I don’t need you to feed me or switch on the telly?_

“Yes. Or no . . . it’s complicated.”

_Can you look at me when you explain it?_

Hesitantly, Draco looked up. His eyes were dark with doubt and pain, and it made Harry angry and wanting to comfort him at the same time.

“When you couldn’t use magic, you needed me to do everything for you,” Draco said. “Now . . . well, you can’t perform magic if I’m not in the house or at least close by, we tried that. You still need me, you need my magic to do things for yourself. It won’t ever change. And it got me thinking. About us.”

 _I think I understand,_ Harry said slowly. _If I want to be even the smallest bit independent, I need you around. And who in my situation would give that up? Even if he didn’t love the other person. Is that it?_

“Yes,” Draco whispered. “I don’t . . . It’s not that I think you don’t love me, though I sometimes do have doubts. I’m stupid like that. But people change, relationships . . . they can end. And if one day you realised that you didn’t love me anymore . . .”

_Then I might not tell you. I might keep you around to be able to talk without the letters chart and use your magic instead of telling you so you could go and live someplace else, have another life and only come home every now and then to satisfy the Blood Bond._

“See how stupid it is? You wouldn’t do something like that. It’s not like you at all. But I can’t get it out of my head. Every time I see you do something with magic, it’s there. And it drives me insane because it’s so absurd! And I keep asking myself if I’d notice if you didn’t love me and if I’d even mind, because if I didn’t notice, then would it matter?”

Harry’d had no idea that Draco was this insecure about their relationship. But then, maybe he tended to forget that they’d both had very different experiences: Harry had had over twelve years to watch Draco and realise what kind of person he truly was and that he loved him deeply. For him, it was certain beyond a doubt, and also that Draco loved him in return. He had proof, had felt it from Draco for years. But Draco had only had two and a half years to process all of it – since Harry had first talked to him.

“And then,” Draco went on, sounding even more frustrated, “I start wondering if all of this hadn’t happened, if you’d recovered more, would we ever have had a chance? I think it’s likely that it wouldn’t have happened. I might have gone on the way I used to, even after you’d have shipped me off to the _Hecate Domicile_ for a while. I think about how my life might have turned out then, and that I’m so much happier now, that I’d even be happier if it was all just a farce and I didn’t know. And doesn’t that mean I’m actually glad about what happened to you? And if that’s true, then what kind of love is that? What kind of person —”

_Draco. Stop!_

Draco blinked, looking as if he’d been zoned out and only now returning to reality.

_You’re thinking way too much about things that don’t matter anymore at all. You’re right: we might never have ended up together if we hadn’t been kidnapped. Maybe not even if I had recovered from it quickly. And you know what?_

It was while Harry said it that he realised that it was true, however bizarre it might sound even to himself, and he hoped that he would be able to make Draco believe him. _If it means that we wouldn’t be in love, that we’d not be together but still in this marriage of convenience and still fighting without the option of being friends – then I am glad about what happened._

“But you –”

 _Shut up and listen to me. I love you. I’ve never loved anyone as much as you, and it’s not because you take care of me or because I can use your magic. If I could get out of bed tomorrow morning and be back to how I used to be, I’d still love you, and I’d still want to be with you. You’re smart, you’re funny, I happen to like quibbling with you over silly things, and also, you’re damn good-looking. Now, I can’t look into the future. I can’t tell you what will happen. Maybe one day I won’t love you anymore – or maybe you won’t love me. Nobody knows. But I_ can _promise that I’ll always be honest with you. If I fell out of love with you, I’d tell you and you could leave. I promise you that._

Still, Draco was looking at him with too much doubt, too much fear. Harry hated it, and not even primarily because it hurt that he wouldn’t believe him. Yes, he was angry with Draco, but Frederica had been right: if he’d let this turn into a fight, who knew how it might have ended. And more than anything, he hated that even now, Draco couldn’t see himself the way Harry saw him, that he still appeared to carry around some of the same doubts about himself he’d had after the war. It had screwed all of them up for decades. 

_Feel it,_ Harry demanded now. _Feel that I mean it, that I do love you and that I’m being honest! You can do that, you know how._

After some moments of hesitation, Draco got up from the chair. He leant over him and put his forehead against Harry’s, closing his eyes, the fingers of his right hand sliding into Harry’s hair over his temple. Harry closed his eyes as well, concentrating only on Draco, on how much he loved him and on the fact that he’d meant every word he had said. He tried to send all of it to Draco like he did the words when he spoke to him. He had no idea how long they stayed like this before Draco spoke.

“I believe you.”

_Good. I mean it._

“Yes, I know that now. But you’ll have to tell me again. I know I should be . . . more mature. More certain of everything. Heck, I’m 45, not a kid anymore! But the thought of you not . . .” He breathed shakily. “You’re my safe place. Everything went to shit after the war, and it only started getting better when I married you. Even when I was wrecking myself with booze, it was better than the years before. I had a safe home and food and somebody to take care of me, no matter whether I wanted it or not. And now . . . I need you, and I’m not sure how I’d manage without you. Even if we end up not loving each other anymore, I’ll need you to be my friend. I wouldn’t even want to leave. I don’t know why I’m even worrying about this.”

_I would be your friend if that happened. But I hope it never does. I plan on getting very old and loving you for the next hundred years._

That elicited a weak chuckle, and Draco withdrew from Harry, enough so that he could look him in the eyes. “That sounds like a good plan. I’m on board with it.”

_Fine. And if you need me to tell you again, all of it, then say so. Promise?_

“Promise.”

Harry knew that Draco meant it, but he also knew that this wasn’t over. They’d have this discussion again, and there might be fights about it in the future. But they would handle it, like they had today.

_Then let’s go home now. I’ve got a surprise for you, and I think you should have it right now._

Draco smiled tiredly. “A surprise? All right, let’s go. We can ask Ron to Apparate us. I’d rather be home with you anyway right now.”

When they made it out on the patio, looking for Ron, they found him and Hermione surrounded by the assembled party guests.

“There you are,” Hermione called. “We were just about to make an announcement. We’ve got a surprise for all of you.”

_Seems the day is full of surprises._

Hermione was glowing, and Ron, while apparently nervous, was smiling serenely as well, his hand curled tightly around Hermione’s, whose other hand was lying on her flat belly.

“I’ll make it short,” she now said. “We’ve been thinking about this for a long time, and we could never make up our minds. We were frightened, to be honest, after what happened the first time. But we’re not getting any younger, so we made a decision a few months ago, and now . . . I’m pregnant.”

The group exploded into cheers and congratulations, and for about the next twenty minutes, going home wasn’t an option.

 **I’m so happy for you,** Harry wrote when they’d made it to the two. **You were meant to have children, I’ve always known that.**

There was much hugging and kissing and more congratulations before it was Neville who Apparated first Draco and then Harry to Grimmauld Place.

 _Come to bed with me, will you?_ Harry said when Neville was gone again.

“Bed? I thought you said something about a surprise.”

_I haven’t forgotten._

“All right. Now you got me even more curious.”

When they’d arrived in the bedroom, Harry asked Draco to undress him – something he couldn’t do with magic – and to undress as well. Soon, they were both naked and lying in bed, but when Draco made to go on to other parts of Harry’s body after he’d kissed his mouth, Harry interrupted him.

_Wait!_

“I something wrong?”

_No. But this is where the surprise comes into play. I want to show you something. Hold still._

Slowly, Harry reached out with his magic, concentrating on feeling what he was going to touch. His heart was thudding heavily in his chest with anticipation – and then he made the contact. Draco gasped when he felt Harry’s touch on his shoulder.

“Is that . . .”

_It’s me!_

Harry let the magic wander, from Draco’s shoulder down his arm, back up again and over his neck to his cheek. It was different than touching him with his fingers – he felt that he was touching _something_ , but not its texture, whether it was hard or soft, or the warmth of Draco’s skin. But the important thing was that he could do this at all.

_Isn’t it great? I found out I could do this only a few days ago. Touch something and actually feel it, not just move objects._

“It’s . . . amazing,” Draco said slowly. He seemed still stunned, and focusing entirely on the touch of magic wandering over his body. “It feels as if you’re stroking me – with magic.”

_I am. Now I can give you back something in bed. I’ve been wanting to touch you for so long. And you can bet I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t love you. Now lie down, will you?_

Draco smiled and closed his eyes, lying back so that Harry could no longer see him, and Harry went on exploring, letting the magic glide over Draco’s face and through his hair before he turned to his chest. When he felt a nipple, he intensified the touch, and Draco breathed deeply.

_Good?_

“M-hm.”

This was going just as Harry had hoped it would. He wanted to stay with Draco’s nipples longer, but found that he was far too impatient. He was hard by now, and determined, he let the magic wander deeper, over Draco’s flat stomach into the nest of blond hair and to his cock, which was still flaccid. Harry was certain that it would change in a matter of moments. Draco gasped, and encouraged by that Harry went on, touching his balls very gently. There was another gasp and Harry moved back up to his cock, trying to wrap the magic around it before he began stroking up and down in slow caresses. From next to him, he heard a whimper, and he thought it was one of pleasure when suddenly, Draco sat up and backed away from him.

“Stop it!”

Immediately, Harry stopped the flow of the magic.

 _What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?_ He was worried that he’d maybe squeezed too hard – it was something he’d never done before, and he would need practice before he’d truly be good at this.

“No, it’s not that. You didn’t do anything.” Draco sounded uncomfortable and embarrassed, and Harry wished that he could sit up and look at him.

_Then what is it?_

Draco sighed deeply. “I should have told you,” he said. “A long time ago. But it never seemed to matter before. But now . . .”

This wasn’t about Harry being clumsy with magic. It was something else entirely, he realised. A sense of shame and old pain was emanating from Draco, and Harry wondered what might have happened to cause it.

“Do you remember that I told you I had to work a lot of shitty jobs to keep Mother and me fed and buy her medicine?”

_I do._

“Well . . .” 

Harry heard the hesitation in Draco’s voice, and it dawned on him what he would tell him next. When Draco came closer again so he could look at him, his suspicions were confirmed by the unhappy frown and the red splotches blooming high on Draco’s cheeks.

“I said that I managed, and the few times I didn’t, Andromeda gave us money. I did manage, but only because when I couldn’t get money elsewhere, I . . . I worked as a prostitute. Mother never knew. I’ve never told anybody, not even my counsellor at the programme. I’m not sure why, maybe because I never wanted to think about it again.”

_Draco . . ._

“I thought it didn’t matter anymore. It’s been 18 years since we married and I stopped. It was . . . this was one of the reasons why I came to you. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t let them . . .” He fell silent, and Harry wished for the first time that he could shield himself even better against his emotions, that he couldn’t share the pain and humiliation.

 _And all the sex after that?_ he probed gently.

Draco chuckled, but it was a bitter sound. “I was drunk, always. I’d drink myself senseless until nothing mattered anymore and I could forget about it. It was the only way. I wasn’t sober during sex even once before we . . . after you started talking to me.”

All these years, all the one night stands Draco had had . . . A lot of things were making much more sense now than they ever had before – maybe even Draco’s strange love for a particular kind of novel.

“It was different with you. I loved you and . . . well . . .”

_And I couldn’t touch you back, so it was all right. You could control everything._

“Yes. It’s so silly!” Draco began wiping at his eyes angrily. “I don’t even know why I’m making such a fuss. It’s not as if they _hurt_ me, it was only sex!”

 _Draco, stop._ Harry reached out with his magic until he felt Draco’s cheek, and after a few moments, Draco lowered his hands.

_You didn’t want it, but you felt you had no choice to keep your mother safe. Isn’t that right?_

Draco hesitated, but then nodded.

_That’s all there is to it. They had sex with you, and you didn’t want it, but you couldn’t say no._

Again, Draco nodded; tears were running down his cheeks, and Harry noticed that he was shaking.

_Lie down, all right? Put your head on my shoulder for a bit._

He wasn’t sure if Draco would do it, but he complied without hesitation. When he had snuggled close and also put his own hand on Harry’s left one, Harry moved the covers over them and once again reached out for Draco. His magic found Draco’s hair, the same spot right over the temple where he would pet Harry almost every day. Now Harry began caressing Draco’s hair in slow, rhythmic strokes. Bit by bit, as time went on, Draco relaxed against him and stopped trembling.

“That didn’t go so well,” he muttered when he’d calmed down completely.

Harry wasn’t so certain. He had to think of Frederica and what she had said. Maybe it was for the best that everything had happened as it did.

_Shhh. Never mind. We’ll try again another day, when you feel ready. And I think you should tell your counsellor. She might be able to recommend somebody who knows about these things and can help._

And maybe she could recommend somebody for Harry as well, to work through the trauma of the torture. Like Draco, he'd only wanted to forget what he had gone through, but the persisting nightmares were proof enough that it wouldn't work. It was only now that he could admit this to himself.

_Now how does that sound?_

“Good. But I don’t know if I can talk about it with somebody else.”

_You’ll figure that out when it happens. And there’s always me. I’ll listen if you want to talk._

Draco nodded. “Not now, though. But . . . soon. I’ll try soon.”

_All right. Now let’s just lie like this a bit longer before we get dressed for bed._

Draco nodded. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’m glad I finally told you.”

Through the bond, Harry still sensed shame and pain, but there was something else now: relief and gratitude. Frederica had been right; Draco had needed this. And Harry as well.

_I love you._

Later that night, when they were both dressed and again snuggled under the covers, Draco fell asleep with Harry stroking his hair and singing their lullaby for him in his mind.

Things weren’t perfect, Harry thought, listening to Draco’s even breathing. They’d fight and have their problems like any other couple. But they had come a long way from that day when Draco had turned up on Harry’s doorstep and demanded he marry him, and they would make this work, together.

.-.-.-.-.

“Enough! No more water!” Draco demanded.

Hugo and Rose giggled, unconcerned, and raised their water pistols again.

“Mercy! I’m soaked. I’ll catch a cold!”

“But it’s hot, Uncle Draco!” Rose pointed out.

What was to be said against that kind of logic, Harry thought, watching with amusement as two thick jets of water hit Draco square in the chest.

“I said enough! Besides, it’s late. You had supper an hour ago. Your parents would throw me into the ocean if they knew you were still up!”

They were on the patio in front of the house Draco had bought in France, and the surf was roaring against the sand only a couple dozen metres away. They’d come here for summer vacation with Ron, Hermione, and the twins, as they had done for the last five years, since Hugo and Rose had been tiny infants. And as they had done for the last five years, like any loving parents who would get this chance, Ron and Hermione had left for an evening, going to town to have a romantic dinner and leaving Harry and Draco to babysit.

“I’m warning you!” Draco called in an ominous tone. “If you don’t go upstairs and brush your teeth right now, Uncle Harry just told me that he’d chase you inside with the broom.”

The twins turned to Harry simultaneously. “We don’t believe you!” Hugo said.

Harry made the notepad and pencil float in the air and wrote something.

“W-a-t-c-h m-e,” the twins read in unison before they giggled and turned to attack Draco again.

Just when another jet of water hit him, the door to the patio opened and a broom came flying out. Harry manoeuvred it over to the children and very gently patted their bums with it, first Rose and then Hugo. They shrieked and let go of the water pistols, turning around with wide eyes.

“I told you,” Draco said. “Now upstairs! I’ll be there in ten minutes, and I want to see you in your pyjamas with your teeth brushed. I’ll know if you cheated.”

“No fair!” Hugo yelled.

“Uncle Harry, you’re mean!” Rose complained.

They were both grinning, though, and when Harry made the broom pat their bums again, they giggled and ran to the door, the broom following and vanishing after them inside.

“Little devils!” Draco groaned and let himself fall into the canvas chair next to Harry. “My hero, you saved me!”

_It was my honour, Milady. Always ready to defend a damsel in distress._

Draco laughed. “If we ever have children, you’ll be in charge of them,” he said. “You’re clearly better suited for that job. They obey you.”

 _If we ever have kids,_ Harry answered, _it will be you who’ll have to do all the work. Kids need a hands-on approach._

“Ha ha ha, _Potter_. If I ever stoop to pathetic puns like that, please tell Ron that he’s free to put me out of my misery.” Draco rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling.

Later, when Hugo and Rose were sleeping, they were lying in bed, Draco petting Harry’s hair while Harry was letting his magic wander over Draco’s chest. It had been four years since Draco had decided to contact the Muggle psychologist his counsellor at the _Hecate_ programme had referred him to, and by now, he enjoyed Harry’s touch, most of the time. Harry had met with a psychologist as well – a Squib who wouldn't have to be introduced to magic to communicate with him. By now, he could talk with Draco about what had happened, and while the nightmares hadn't stopped, they were much less frequent.

“I was thinking,” Draco said suddenly. “About what we said earlier, outside. About having children. We’re 50 now, almost 51. We can still have them if we want, even in ten, fifteen years. It’s not a stretch, even Muggles have children that late sometimes, I read about that. We never talked about it except for that first night after the wedding, but that doesn’t count. _Do_ you want children?”

 _I’m not certain,_ Harry said thoughtfully. _I used to want kids. I always imagined I’d have at least two or three. When we got married, I was miserable at the idea of never having any. But now . . . I don’t know. Life is good. We’ve got our friends and their children, and we have each other. I don’t really miss anything._

“It’s the same for me,” Draco agreed. “I used to think it would be a catastrophe if the blood-line didn’t continue, if there were no more Malfoys.” He shrugged. “Things changed. I don’t mind so much anymore, and well, the Black part of my family won’t die out. There’s Teddy and Carmina; their baby can come any day. And there are more important things you leave behind in the world than biological children.”

_Your ancestors would turn in their graves if they could hear you._

“They can stuff it. All they got me was trouble. My life only got better without their influence and instead you in it.”

Harry laughed. _Who’d have thought it? Imagine if anybody had told us this was how we’d end up when we still were at school – or even right after we married._

“I would have thought they had lost their mind. Maybe I’d have hexed them.”

_Precisely. And now we’re in bed, valiant knight and a no longer distressed damsel, very much in love and talking about possible children. ‘God works in mysterious ways,’ is what Muggles would say._

“All gods were probably wizards who had fun playing the Muggles of their times for fools.”

 _Then Merlin perhaps?_ Harry said, sending amusement through the bond.

Draco snorted. “Right. That’s absurd.”

_Well, then it fits us perfectly._

“You’ve got a point.” Draco was smirking, and his hand slowly travelled down Harry’s side. “Now, about those children: if we ever have them, I’ll be far too busy at first to be present in your bed a lot, so we should get to it while we still can. Carpe diem.”

_I’m all for that. Now shut up and kiss me._

Draco did.

 

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